The League Extraordinaire
by DarkMark
Summary: The League has continued into the early 1970's, and now includes some of the most famous secret agents of that era.  Unfortunately, one of their greatest foes has also survived...and is determined to ensure that they don't.
1. Chapter 1

The League Extraordinaire 

by DarkMark 

NOTE: All apologies to Alan Moore and all the others whose characters I've shamelessly plagiarized for this fict. 

  
"You don't have to accept the assignment, Bond." 

The words caused the man who was being addressed to jerk his gaze up in his superior's direction. "Sir?" he said. 

The admiral gave his agent another appraising look. "Other services will be sending their applicants. They should be sufficient for the task." He mused. "There are even a couple with whom you'd be familiar." 

"I'm sure," said Bond. "If they're old friends, wouldn't it be an impoliteness for me to decline?" 

Miles Messervy toyed with a pen. "Knew you'd say that, Bond. Pick up the usual from Moneypenny. Plane tickets have been purchased. You'll be leaving tomorrow at 8 a.m. And Bond?" 

"Sir?" 

"I imagine the ones with whom you're familiar will not like you. Nonetheless. Work with them." 

"Thank you, sir." 

"Dismissed, Bond." 

On the way back to his flat, Bond considered the situation M had gotten him into this time. He was used to working by himself--well, to be fair, there were backup people, but he handled all the important matters on his own. Of course, he was on the backside of forty by now, and had, in recent years, suffered amnesia, been taken in by the Russians and brainwashed into trying to murder the very man from whom he had just taken orders, been nearly killed by Scaramanga and then by Colonel Sun, and now found himself asked to work with a group of operatives. 

Well, he'd do it, but damned if he'd like it. And what was the name they'd given themselves? 

The "League Extraordinare"? 

Sounded like some silly-ass name from a Boy's Own Paper. 

-L- 

The ticket was for San Francisco and that was a hell of a long plane ride. The usual inedibles, and a fiftyish woman seatmate who had to tell him about her new grandbaby and such, but who had sense enough to leave him alone when he wanted to sleep. 

San Francisco. Why? It would seem that the Americans could take care of their own backyard, or at least their own side yard, given California's positioning. God knew, they had capable men there. He'd even worked with a few. Of course, he didn't know whether or not it would be a good thing for him to collaborate with Leiter again. They loved each other, but damnation! Every time, Leiter lost a part of his body. Luckily, none of them so far was the part Bond had almost lost once, to Le Chiffre. But there was only so much of a man that could be lost before he died. 

The pilot was talking to them now in that boring Midwestern drawl. "Ladies 'n' gentlemen, we are approaching San Francisco. We ask that you stow any excess items in the compartments above your seats and that you remain seated with your seatbelts buckled at all times from this point until we land. Thank you all for flying Continental Airlines, and have a great time in San Francisco." At least he didn't say "y'all". 

The usual bumps of landing, the usual deceleration, unbuckling, getting to one's feet, recovering the case which one had put in the overhead compartment, filing out into the cramped walkspace, through the tunnel, and into the airport. Bond felt as though he needed three drinks, one after the other. He located the luggage carousel and promised himself to fulfill at least a third of his needs at the terminal bar. 

There was someone watching him. 

He knew that while he was standing there waiting for his damned suitcase. 

It is much less hard to trust your hunter's instincts than it is to disconnect your emotions from your surface, but he had done it many times. One had to. Just as one had to find the one who was watching. 

Hopefully, this one would be a friend. But he doubted it. 

The most likely candidate was a Chinese man leaning against the wall to the extreme left of him and holding a copy of The Guardian. The man was dressed in a brown suit that had no telltale bulges Bond could detect about the chest. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties and was muscular. Probably one of those types who spent a quarter of their lives in dojos, Bond thought with a twinge of distaste. 

The man's eyes were searching the room but always seemed to return to Bond. The man also seemed to know that Bond was watching. 

The black suitcase came around in the carousel and Bond carefully reached for it. He did not wish to give the man his back as he did so. Nonetheless, one's back faces some direction at all times. Colonel Sun, he remembered, was not that long ago. 

Then someone else was walking forward. Walking towards him. Suitcase in one hand and valise by his legs, Bond turned in his direction and raised an eyebrow in recognition. 

"Mr. Hazzard?" said the man. Casual dress, hat, sunglasses. But Bond knew the silvery hair, the face, and the smile. 

"Yes," acknowledged Bond, his face softening. "I believe we have company, Mr...." 

"Stone," said the other. "Our company will be covered, Mr. Hazzard. Come with me." 

The two of them walked away from the carousel. Bond said, softly, "The Chinese person in the brown suit. Against the wall." 

"We saw him," said Stone. "He has friends." 

"How many?" 

"About three, I think." 

"One and a half for each of us," murmured Bond. "I haven't yet figured out how to split a villain." 

Stone smiled. "James, I don't think we'll have to worry about that. Trust me." 

"I heard your assignment with Galaxy went all right," said Bond. "Congratulations." 

"Thanks. By the way, he's following us." 

"Do you think they'll wait till we get in a car?" Bond chanced a look and saw another Chinese gentleman was heading towards them, less inconspicuously than he should have, from a separate direction. 

"For their sake, James, I hope so." 

Bond exhaled heavily. This bit of being ambushed just as one reaches another country was getting to be a damned cliche. True, it was better than being attacked on board your plane. But not by much. 

Still, he had met the man who called himself Stone before. In fact, he'd staged a fight with him, just for the purpose of passing on information about the Galaxy case. The man could handle himself, no question. That was the kind of man Bond wanted at his back, and hoped would want him at a similar place. 

"Be prepared to run for the taxi stand," Stone cautioned him. "We've got one waiting for us." 

Bond shoved Stone down with an arm to the shoulders and swept his legs out from under him with a foot, all in the same motion. He fell to the carpet along with his friend. Briefly he noted Stone's surprise, but the man was too good to ask questions. He already had his cigarette lighter in hand. 

A dart had been fired from a small concealed weapon in the hand of one of the Chinese men. It passed over the bodies of Bond and Stone at what would have been waist-height and embedded itself point-first in the wall of a brown Samsonite case on a porter's cart. The blue-uniformed porter looked up and gaped. 

They were drawing attention. Not good, but they hadn't asked for it. 

Bond had jammed his hand into his jacket and came out with the gun. No time to worry about future consequences, just fire. The Asian who had shot at them was quick, but not quick enough, as a silenced report of Bond's Walther confirmed. The impact threw their target back, arms flailing, onto his back on the floor. People moved away from the spot where he had landed. A woman screamed as she saw the blood begin to gout from a hole in the man's sternum. 

Stone was already up. The second of what was presumably four assassins had a knife in hand and had arced his arm to the halfpoint of throwing it. From what he could see of the knife, Bond knew that it looked like it bore a dragon-shaped hilt. The Triad and a lot of other Asian crime families could be the pedigree. 

Stone rushed forward, flipped, did a handstand before the man could break his wrist for the throw, and smashed his two feet into their foe. One foot into the forearm of the man's throwing wrist, the other into his face. The latter landed with great impact and, from the sound of it, Bond knew it had broken bones. Stone rebounded from his foe, who was beginning to decide whether or not to scream, and flipped back to his feet again. The assassin was still holding his knife. Stone grabbed the man's wrist with one hand, held the knife in place with the other, and forced the arm forward to drive the knife straight into his chest. He stepped away at such an angle that the blood did not stain him. As the body fell, Stone stooped and recovered his cigarette lighter from where he had dropped it on the floor. 

Bond was peripherally aware of the people around him, the people starting to scream, to draw away, to look like zombies, to put themselves in harm's way. All of that data would be sorted out, in time. For now, the focus was on the two other Chinese, who were shredding caution and coming at them without attempt at concealment. One of them was going for something apparently stuck down the back of his coat. A guard in a blue uniform tried to stop him, grabbing his shoulder. "Hey, buddy, what's this all a..." was all he got out. 

The Chinese whipped the pair of nunchucks from the back of his coat and smashed one end of them into the guard's face. He went down and did not get up. 

The incident, though terrible, was a blessing for Bond. It allowed him the time he needed to fire on the man and bring him down. He fired once, then once more to keep things certain. A hole opened in the man's forehead and throat and he went back, the two-part weapon falling from his hands. A bit of a tattoo seemed visible as the sleeve rode back from his arm. 

The crowd was reacting with horror. 

Good for them. 

That left Mister Four, and, unlike his fellows, he wasn't getting that near to them. He hung back, materialized something in his hand, and threw it. A stinging pain in Bond's upper arm told him that the man had scored a bullseye. Some sort of wicked pointed metal star. On his gun arm, too. The thing hurt like a right bitch. He grasped for his gun wrist to steady it, and knew he was going to be all too late. Whatever the man threw his next star at was going to go just where he wanted it. 

The cigarette lighter hit him in the face first. It was spewing gas. The Chinese assassin opened his mouth in surprise, and then clawed at his eyes. It was blinding him. The lighter had fallen to the floor, where it still spewed gas for a few seconds. 

Stone was on him, his eyes narrowed to slits, and brought his arm down in a stroke that contacted the side of the man's neck and broke it. The Chinese fell to the floor and stayed there. Stone swept his lighter up in one hand and, a second later, had Bond in the other, helping him up. 

"Don't panic, anyone," said Stone in a sufficiently loud voice. "We'll take it from here." 

"I'm afraid," said Bond, trying not to grit his teeth, "that I might bleed on you." 

"I've had worse," replied Stone, hustling him forward. 

There were remarkably few incidents in proportion to the stares they received as they made it out the doors, to the taxi stand, and to a yellow cab whose driver was being yelled at by a man in a flat cap who wouldn't take no for an answer. "You off duty?" said the man in the cap. "That sign on your top don't say off duty. Why can't you take me?" 

"'Cause I'm waiting for my fare," said the cabbie, a well-built black man. 

"I'm a fare," said the man. "What the hell else are ya waitin' for, dammit?" 

Stone said, "He's waiting for us." 

The man turned, looked, gaped at the two men and the blood below the belt which Stone had looped about Bond's arm above the wound, and backed away. 

The two got into the back of the cab and were, thankfully, able to pull away at a rapid speed. The driver looked back at them. "Cut looks nasty." 

"I look better in red," said Bond, loosening the belt-tourniquet a bit. 

Stone was turning the throwing star over on his knee with a pencil. "Not quite the thing you can pick up in the local pawnshops. Very professionally balanced. However, doesn't have any poison on it. Careless." 

"You sure you don't want me to take you to a hospital?" asked the cabbie. "We can go there, you know." 

"They've got facilities where we're headed, Raymond," said Stone. "You know that." 

"I think I do, sir," said Raymond. "I think I do." 

"Flint," Bond said, massaging his shoulder a bit, "I'm beginning to appreciate what Felix Leiter goes through, every time I see him." 

"Bond, I hope not." 

-L- 

The meeting place was not at Universal Exports, as he hoped it would be. Instead, it was in the twentieth story of an office building, with appropriate guardposts and defenses located about it. There was quite a bit to be found on that floor, including an infirmary of sorts where a doctor numbed Bond's arm and stitched his wound efficiently. An older gentleman offered him a new coat, and he wore it. Flint and Bond had to present their letters of invitation and were issued badges with only the gold letter L on a black background. 

"Have you been here before?" Bond asked Flint, as the two of them proceeded through the last office door. 

"Actually, no," Flint answered. "But I know of the man who invited us, and I think I can trust him." 

"So you know his name, then," Bond asserted. "More reassuring by the minute." They were in the outer office, alone, and Bond had time to pass his eyes over a series of framed group portraits on the walls. Some of them were paintings, some were engravings, others daggeurotypes, and the rest seemed to be photos from Matthew Brady's time up to the present. The only identifications were year plates, and they went well back into the 1600's. 

The inner door opened before Flint could reach it. "Come in," said a feminine voice. 

"Well," said Flint, and did so. Bond followed. 

Inside was a spacious meeting room, with a fairly long table and not very many people to fill it. Actually, besides Bond and Flint, there were only four. Two of them sat side by side on the left hand side of the table, one in a black suit and the other in more casual jacket, pullover shirt, and pants. The one in the suit was black-haired and gave Bond an appraising look. The jacketed one was blonde and regarded both of the newcomers with casual wariness. 

The woman who had invited them in should have taken most of Bond's attention. She was brunette, gorgeous, a blend of cold and warmth from what he could take in of her, attired in a purple jumpsuit, and as self-possessed as a general. She stood near the head of the table with folded arms and had a slight smile, not giving more of herself away than her appearance. 

But the one who sat at the table's head was a familiar face to Bond. Even after all the years between, even in a derby and tailored suit, with an umbrella's handle hanging from the edge of the table beside him, Bond knew him. And, more importantly, was known by him. 

The man smiled with his mouth, but not his eyes. "Commander Bond," he said. 

"Bond," said the black-suited man, pushing his chair back, rising, and extending his hand. "Heard about you. Of course, in the trade...who hasn't?" 

Flint smiled, tightly. Bond stepped past him, and pumped the hand offered him. "Thank you." 

The blonde man was shaking Flint's hand. "My name is Kuryakin. This is Mr. Solo. Pleased to meet you." 

"Dosvidanya, Mr. Kuryakin," said Flint. 

"Mrs. Peel," said the woman, to answer Bond's inquisitive gaze. "I've met your superior before. Charming man." 

"Hopefully, we're speaking of the same man," quipped Bond. 

"Quite," said her partner. "And, for Mr. Flint's benefit, I'll introduce myself. My name is Steed. John Steed. Welcome to the League Extraordinaire. Or at least, part of its present incarnation." 

Flint said, "So much high-priced talent here. I'd almost expect to see a few managers at hand." 

"Or, in some cases," said Steed, favoring Bond with a glance, "a few keepers. But. Let's on to business, shall we?" 

Bond took the throwing star from his coat pocket and pitched it lightly onto the table. "Business has already come to us. Does this indicate anything?" 

"Sort of a business card one gentleman left in Mr. Bond's arm," said Flint. "We left him with a few calling cards of our own." 

Steed looked at the star, briefly. "Indicates quite a bit, actually. We've been posted about the incident. My regrets to your arm, Mr. Bond, if not to...all of you. But we've had indications of the person's presence in this matter. That's why the League was called into action. They've fought him before. Our predecessors, that is." 

Flint said, "How long before?" 

"Oh," said Steed, "roughly in the neighborhood of...I suppose...seventy years." 

-L- 

There was much to dislike about the present era, the man decided. Not that there had not been competition in earlier days as well. The Hitlers and Stalins, the British with their attempts to hold onto an Empire now thankfully almost dust, the Americans with their industry and then their all-powerful bomb, those of his own race who had so stupidly turned to Communism, for which he would someday chastise them. 

Those things were of nations and empires, and easily understood. 

Now, it was an era of multinational agencies with absurd names and absurder operatives. Names such as UNCLE and THRUSH and CYPHER and SPECTRE. Sometimes he wondered how they managed to recruit enough underlings to staff their operations, and suspected that there was great migration about these groups, though none admitted it. 

He had moles within all these, and within those on the other side. What corresponding moles he had found in his own organization had their bones pierced while they were still alive, if he was feeling merciful. The quality of mercy was not in the intensity of punishment from discovery unto death, but in the length. 

Now, so he knew, men of the modern era had gathered under an old banner to fight him. Just as their predecessors had, several generations ago. He wondered if any of them even knew of that old battle. It mattered not. 

For their actions against several agents of the present government of China, he might even have rewarded them. But they were not allies. Not even competitors. They were simply another flavor of enemy. 

Fu Manchu indulged in a bit of reflection as he fed his pet marmoset, and wondered how they would fall to him. 

To be continued...possibly... 

Notes for part 1: 

James Bond (Agent 007): Top agent of the British Secret Service. The 00 prefix of his serial number indicates that he is licensed to kill. Created by Ian Fleming, who depicted him in a series of novels and short stories beginning with CASINO ROYALE (1953). His adventures were later written by Kingsley Amis, John Gardner, and John Benson. This adventure takes place after COLONEL SUN. 

M (Admiral Miles Messervy): James Bond's superior, created by Ian Fleming and appearing in virtually all of the novels. 

"There are even a couple with whom you'd be familiar." As we shall see, Bond has already met Derek Flint and John Steed. 

"Of course, he was on the backside of forty by now, and had, in recent years, suffered amnesia, been taken in by the Russians and brainwashed into trying to murder the very man from whom he had just taken orders, been nearly killed by Scaramanga and then by Colonel Sun, and now found himself asked to work with a group of operatives." Bond suffered amnesia in YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE. The attempt to murder M after Russian brainwashing and his subsequent adventure against Francisco "Pistols" Scaramanga was delineated in THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN. Colonel Sun appeared, of course, in COLONEL SUN. 

"The 'League Extraordinare'?" This is the name by which the former League of Extraordinary Gentlemen is known by 1970. Emma Peel would not stand to be counted as a Gentleman. 

"Every time, Leiter lost a part of his body." Felix Leiter, an American CIA agent, is one of Bond's most steadfast friends. He debuts in CASINO ROYALE and appears in at least six novels in the series. In LIVE AND LET DIE, he loses his right hand and leg to a shark. In THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN, he suffers a fracture of his remaining tibia, and remarks, "Every time I see [Bond] a piece of me gets broken off." That's an exaggeration, but not by much. 

"Luckily, none of them so far was the part Bond had almost lost once, to Le Chiffre." If you really want to know what part that was, read CASINO ROYALE. 

"Colonel Sun, he remembered, was not that long ago." COLONEL SUN is Bond's last recorded case before this story. Col. Sun Liang-tan was a Red Chinese who captured M in order to lure Bond into a trap, planning to bomb a Russian summit conference and leave the bodies of M and Bond as plants to implicate the British. 

"'Mr. Hazzard?' said the man." Mark Hazzard is an alias Bond has used before, in THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN. 

"'Stone,' said the other." This is Derek Flint, independent American secret agent who works for Zonal Organization for World International Espionage (ZOWIE), as shown in the movies OUR MAN FLINT and IN LIKE FLINT and the TV-movie OUR MAN FLINT: DEAD ON TARGET, the last of which takes place after this story. Flint is an incredible polymath, a formidable combatant, and the possessor of a cigarette lighter with 87 separate death-dealing functions. (88 if you include lighting a cigar...) 

"'I heard your assignment with Galaxy went all right,' said Bond." This case, as shown in OUR MAN FLINT, involved Flint's one-man attack on an organization named Galaxy, which sought to conquer the world through weather control. 

"Still, he had met the man who called himself Stone before. In fact, he'd staged a fight with him, just for the purpose of passing on information about the Galaxy case." This was shown in OUR MAN FLINT. Bond was referred to in the movie as "Agent 0008" because of copyright problems, but the variation on his code number and his reference to SPECTRE identifies him clearly as James Bond. 

"The meeting place was not at Universal Exports, as he hoped it would be." Universal Exports is a cover used by the British Secret Service in the James Bond novels. 

"Bond had time to pass his eyes over a series of framed group portraits on the walls. Some of them were paintings, some were engravings, others daguerreotypes, and the rest seemed to be photos from Matthew Brady's time up to the present. The only identifications were year plates, and they went well back into the 1600's." These are either the originals or duplicates of the pictures shown in LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY GENTLEMEN #1. The League, in some form or another, has lasted almost four centuries. 

"The one in the suit was black-haired and gave Bond an appraising look. The jacketed one was blonde and regarded both of the newcomers with casual wariness." Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, top enforcement agents of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, as shown in THE MAN FROM UNCLE TV episodes, novels, and comics. This story takes place after THE FINAL AFFAIR (MFU #24), though some events at the last part of that story were possibly incorrect (such as Illya's supposed loss of a limb and subsequent promotion to the Russian admiralty). 

"She was brunette, gorgeous, a blend of cold and warmth from what he could take in of her, attired in a purple jumpsuit, and as self-possessed as a general." Emma Peel, the "talented amateur" who works for MI5 as the partner of John Steed, as shown in the TV series THE AVENGERS. Emma is a crack martial artist and an excellent agent who saved England from evil masterminds in dozens of cases. 

"Even after all the years between, even in a derby and tailored suit, with an umbrella's handle hanging from the edge of the table beside him, Bond knew him. And, more importantly, was known by him." John Steed, top MI5 agent, who appeared in the TV series THE AVENGERS. His chief weapon is his umbrella, which, on occasion, contains gimmicks (including a hidden brandy flask). He is rarely seen without his derby. His encounter with Bond in their schoolboy days is recounted in THE BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN STEED. 

"I've met your superior before. Charming man." Emma met M in THE RAINBOW AFFAIR (MFU #13). 

"Names such as UNCLE and THRUSH and CYPHER and SPECTRE." THRUSH, the Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity, was UNCLE's main enemy until their fall in THE FINAL AFFAIR (MFU #24). Their revival in "The Fifteen Years Later Affair" will take place after this story. CYPHER is a similar agency which fought the Shadow in several 1960's Belmont novels. SPECTRE (Special ExeCutive for Terror, Revenge, and Extortion) is, of course, the organization formerly headed by the late Ernst Stavro Blofeld, which became James Bond's chief opponents. It debuted in THUNDERBALL and appeared in ON HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE and, after the time of this story, in FOR SPECIAL SERVICES. 

"Just as their predecessors had, several generations ago." As depicted in LOEG #1-6. 

"Fu Manchu indulged in a bit of reflection as he fed his pet marmoset, and wondered how they would fall to him." Dr. Fu Manchu, head of the Asiatic secret organization known as the Si Fan, debuted in THE INSIDIOUS DR. FU MANCHU and appeared in fourteen books authored by his creator, Sax Rohmer. He also appeared in various pastiches.   



	2. Chapter 2

The League Extraordinaire 

by DarkMark 

Part 2 

"All right, guv, you've given us our roadwork for the day," said Willie Garvin. "Now it'd be a bit right of you to quit tremblin' so much and give. That way your ear won't be so near my knife, y'know?" 

The cold, black-haired woman looked on from only two paces away, her hand still holding a gun. The Asiatic who had fled them was pinned against an alley wall by her man Willie, who had a kris abutting the lower edge of the man's ear. The Asian looked hard, but frightened, as well. Somehow she didn't believe the fear was inspired by Willie. 

"The Network can protect you," she said. "It can even employ you. On the other hand, if you don't confide in us, you'll probably be one ear poorer. And your employer will learn that you betrayed him, whether you do or don't. We can see to that." 

"I dare not," he said, in a Chinese dialect which she understood. "I dare not." 

"What's 'e sayin', princess?" 

"He's proving difficult, Willie," she said. "Hold him there, I'm going to try something else." She put her free hand in a pouch at her belt. A hypodermic of scopolamine was among the contents. Their quarry might be able to resist it, or he might not. Whatever the case, it was bound to be easier than having Willie cut the answers out of him. 

The man snatched his head away in a move that slashed his ear, sank his teeth into Garvin's arm, and kicked him at the same time. Willie yelped and tried to bring his kris down into the man's shoulder. But he managed to lurch out of Garvin's grip. 

Modesty Blaise caught him by one arm and easily tossed him against a wall of the alley. The Asian grunted with pain from the impact. She hadn't exerted that much strength. From her vantage point, she could block him if he tried to run to either side, and if he came at her she would not treat him so easily as before. She pulled the syringe out of her pouch. 

"Princess, look out!" 

She saw the man looking upward as she heard Willie's warning. Something dropped from the roof of the building whose wall their guest was leaning against. Something fell with deadly accuracy on the man's face. Something reddish and crawling. 

He had time to give a terrible scream. 

Modesty grabbed the kris from Willie's hand, swept the crawler off their quarry's face, and pinned it to the wall through the thorax, almost in the same movement. It squirmed, not quite ready to die yet. Garvin sent two shots from his gun towards the roof from which the bug had been dropped. No noise, no return shots. 

She did not think there would be. 

The Asian was dead. The huge red mark on his nose showed where the crawler had bitten him. Wordlessly, she took the kris and gave it back to Willie. 

"They may still be around, princess," he said, his eyes still searching the rooftops. 

"No," she said. "They're already gone. I know their work. But we still don't know about their operation." 

"So y'think it's still the guy you had pegged?" 

"No question about it," said Modesty. "Our man was Si-Fan, all right. They used the Zayat Kiss on him. We're only on the outskirts of this thing, Willie. But we know who's at the center of the web. Dr. Fu Manchu." 

-L- 

Bond was tempted to send breakfast back, but he never attended meetings on an empty stomach. The usual gluey, doughy American fare. Well, when in San Francisco... No. He just couldn't complete the thought. He did not intend to do anything as the San Franciscans did. 

He was eating toast, marmalade, several rashers of bacon, and two fried eggs not done to his specifications down in the building's first-floor restaurant when Emma Peel walked over to his table. She was dressed in a brown outfit and wore a red headband in her hair. Her expression was not quite a smile, but would pass for one. "Permission to come aboard, Mr. Bond?" 

Bond smiled. "Granted, Mrs. Peel. Warn you, if this fare was any worse, I'd have saved the leftovers from my plane meal." 

She looked slightly amused. "I can adapt myself. And I've already ordered." 

"Good. Now tell me," said Bond, sipping a cup of mocha coffee between phrases, "what exactly is this extraordinary thing we're supposed to be part of?" 

Emma Peel crossed her long legs. He noted that her feet were in white sandals, which seemed oddly appealing. "A very good question. John says that the organization extends back several centuries. That great men of similar bent were banded together to fight the sort of things we contend with today, only...simpler. But, I would imagine, no less dangerous." 

"I was under the impression that the group wasn't extant more than a century or so," murmured Bond. He stopped as Emma's meal arrived, and continued after the waiter had gone. "What, really, is the case?" 

Emma salted and buttered what was to be seasoned on her plate, then consumed a forkful before answering. "It's hard to say, really. You've seen the pictures on the walls. Those paintings and daggeurotypes aren't prints. They're handed down, Steed says, to every new generation of the League." 

"Anyone I might know?" He was trying to sop up the last of the runny egg with his last bit of toast, and simultaneously trying not to let his cynicism slop over into offensiveness. 

She shrugged, minutely. "Bond. Campion Bond." 

He stopped as if flash-frozen. 

Emma smiled, wickedly. "I see the name makes a palpable hit, Mr. Bond." 

Bond dropped the toast on his plate and wiped his hands on the napkin, deliberately. "Did Steed put you up to this, Mrs. Peel?" 

"Certainly not. Mr. Bond, I am my own--" 

"Dropping the name of my grandfather as if that was supposed to make me say, 'Ahh! What a great surprise! Then I must surely carry on in his footsteps!'" He was disgusted. "I don't believe a damned word of it, now. That's just like Steed." 

"It is the truth!" Mrs. Peel looked indignant, and was. "I believe what he said of you now, Mr. Bond." 

"And what did he say?" The two of them were keeping their voices low, but it was still throwing caution to the winds. 

"That you're every bit as stupid and bullying as you were when the two of you were schoolboys." 

"Oh." Bond smirked. "So he remembers. Or at least he remembers his version of it." 

She leaned forward, icily. "And you have your own, I suppose." 

"I do." 

"He says you were a bully." 

"I was." 

"He says that you used to force the boys of lower forms to stir your cocoa for you." 

"I did." 

"He furthermore says that he refused, you pushed him into a fight, and he beat you." 

"I might quibble with the particulars of that." 

"I am sure you would." Mrs. Peel got up. 

"Wait, Emma," said Bond. "All right. You've hit one of my damned sore spots, I've hit one of yours. Now we're both even." 

"Two wrongs, Mr. Bond, do not make a right." She picked up her coffee cup and dish. "Do me the courtesy of not coming to my table." She turned her back, giving Bond a nice view of a shapely derriere the shape of which her tightly-fitting pants did little to conceal. As she walked off, Bond wiped his mouth with the napkin again. 

"Seems we've run into a bit of interference crossing the English channel," said a pleasant voice behind him. 

Bond turned and saw Napoleon Solo. The man was impeccably dressed in a suit and bow tie, and had an ingratiating smile on his face. His hands were behind his back. 

"An astute observation, Mr. Solo," Bond said. "Where's your partner?" 

"Illya's at liberty till the morning meet. Wouldn't be surprised to see him and Flint together, having a conversation in Russian. As I'm the only American here, care to further the spirit of Roosevelt and Churchill and invite me to sit down?" 

Gesturing to the booth seat before him, Bond said, "Why not? I haven't offended my quota of persons today." 

Solo took his seat. "Have to admit, you're somewhat of a legend in the trade. The business in Kentucky, the Moonraker shot..." 

Bond looked away. "I don't like to talk about my past work." 

"So I see," said Solo. "Anything in particular bothering you?" 

He rubbed his right thumb and forefingers together. "Everything is bothering me. Everything about this." 

Napoleon said, "It's working with other, ah, operatives. Am I right?" 

Bond looked at him. 

"No, don't worry, Bond, I'm no mind-reader," said Solo with a smile. "It's just that you're known as a loner, for the most part. I've worked with Illya for such a long time now that it'd be hard to imagine going on my own anymore." 

"Going solo, as it were." 

"Old joke, James, but quite all right. Can you tell me why you got into the business?" 

"Not really. There were reasons once, I'm sure, but the only reason I can think of being in it now is because I'm suited for it." 

Solo nodded. "Guess that's the case for all of us." 

"But we don't know it until we've done it." 

"And lived." 

"There is always that, Mr. Solo." Bond amended it. "Always, until." 

Solo looked at Mrs. Peel's table. "Well, will you look at that," he said. "Looks like our lady friend isn't lonely, after all." 

Illya and Flint had materialized and were sitting and speaking with Emma. All three of them were speaking in Russian. Illya had said something that cracked her up mightily. She was hooting with laughter, and even Flint was grinning. 

Bond knew enough Russian to be gratified that the conversation wasn't entirely about him. 

-L- 

The Si-Fan at the controls of the helicopter spoke in Mandarin dialect, into the microphone. "We have a probable match on the quarry,"> he said. 

A voice came through his headphones. "The Master wishes the quarry dealt with immediately. If this is an error, it can be dealt with."> 

"Acknowledged,"> said the pilot, and pressed a button on the chopper's control board. 

The sounds of two rockets igniting were heard from the undercarriage of the craft. They were released, red-painted nose tips directed at the twentieth floor of the office building that was their target. 

The impact came so quickly that the pilot didn't even have a chance to count "One" after the discharge. 

To be continued... 

NOTES FOR PART 2: 

"'All right, guv, you've given us our roadwork for the day,' said Willie Garvin." Willie Garvin is the partner of Modesty Blaise, and a member of her organization, the Network. He debuted with her in the Modesty Blaise comic strip and later appeared in the novels, beginning with MODESTY BLAISE, all of which were written by Peter O'Donnell. 

"The cold, black-haired woman looked on from only two paces away, her hand still holding a gun." Modesty Blaise, former waif turned deadly special operative and head of the Network. Modesty is a superb hand-to-hand fighter and also deadly with almost any sort of weapon. She was created by Peter O'Donnell for her own comic strip and later appeared in a series of novels, in the last of which she died. 

"John says that the organization extends back several centuries. That great men of similar bent were banded together to fight the sort of things we contend with today, only...simpler." If the pictures in the first issue of LOEG can be credited, the League was extant in the 1600s and, in its history, has included Lemuel Gulliver, Natty Bumppo, and many other chronicled champions of antiquity. 

"She shrugged, minutely. 'Bond. Campion Bond.'" There is some controversy about this, but since this is a League Extraordinaire story, we will posit that Campion Bond, who debuted in LOEG #1 as the director of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen in 1897, was indeed James Bond's grandfather.   
  
"He furthermore says that he refused, you pushed him into a fight, and he beat you." This incident was recounted in THE BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN STEED. 

"The business in Kentucky, the Moonraker shot..." References to GOLDFINGER and MOONRAKER, two of Bond's most celebrated cases.   



	3. Chapter 3

The League Extraordinaire: Part 3 

by DarkMark 

"Wake up, Scotty." 

One eye in Alexander Scott's face opened, warily. He'd been partnered with this man long enough to read his voice tones. There was nothing there that told him to get out of bed and grab his gun before he grabbed his drawers. 

"Y'know, Kelly," said Scott, "you've really got to work on your wake-up lines. I mean, like, when I was a kid, back in wherever it was I was a kid in, my mom, she was beautiful, she'd always do this routine..." 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Kelly, impatiently. He was sitting beside the bed, his foot near the Head tennis racket that Scott had dropped there last night, just before he collapsed and snoozed ten hours straight. "I've heard that. Scotty, I've got word on what happened last night." 

Scott raised himself to a sitting position. "Oh?" 

"They want us off it." 

"What?" 

"They want us off, Scotty. They want us to come home." 

"Come home?" Scott swung his long legs out of bed. "Now, listen, Kelly. Here we are, in Hong Kong, we've busted into an operation by the Hong Kong Tong or whatever they call themselves..." 

"Yeah." 

"...we've even learned there's something behind it bigger than the Tong itself, maybe, we've just got the tail end of it..." 

"I know. And it looks like the tail's all we're gonna get." 

Scott spread his hands. "Why?" 

Kelly scratched the back of his neck. "They say it's being handled by another agency." 

"What?" 

"That's all I got out of them. By another agency." 

"Oh, now, what is this, Kelly? Are we facing competition, now? Is it, I mean, do we have to go around playing, 'I'm Hertz, I'm Avis,' with somebody, and all that?" 

"I. Don't. Know." 

"Kelly, look. A couple of nights ago we got shot at, for cryin' out loud. We shot back. I got one of the guys, too." 

"Thought I got him." 

"Betcha five to one he's got my bullet. You wanna bribe the coroner's office, or me?" 

"You're starting to sound eager about this. That scares me." Kelly grinned. 

"Me? Eager? Heck, no! But if I gotta do it to save our all-American hides, you ought to know that I can shoot just as well as I volley." 

"Point being?" 

"Oh, you're walking on dangerous ground now, let me tell you!" 

Kelly's expression sobered. "We both are, Scotty. Apparently too dangerous." 

Scott looked serious as well. He hung his wrists over his knees. "Hey. Whatever it is, we can handle it." 

"Apparently we're not going to be allowed to handle it. I've got us a flight booked out in a few hours. Get dressed." He slapped Scott's calf through the covers. 

Grumbling, Scott emerged from the bed. "If this keeps happening, maybe it's time to quit and get married." 

"Not for a couple of years, I hope." 

"Yeah." 

-L- 

"Good God!" 

Bond wasn't sure which of them had said the words, or if it was himself. It was the least important thing in the world, at the moment. 

Above them, by a number of stories, something had hit the blasted building. A bomb? Most likely. But of what nature, and how delivered? Didn't matter. Survival. That was all that mattered now. 

He had taken a place under the table, feeling a twinge of pain in his wounded arm, and noted that Flint, Illya, Solo, and Emma had done the same, individually. A gun was in his hand. The reverbrations of the explosion were deafening. He glanced up, through the front window of the restaurant, and noted great chunks of debris, stone and steel, falling to the street. And, he knew, crushing some pedestrians and cars. 

The bloody bastards. The bloody bastards must have hit the very level the League functioned on. The doctor who attended him, the assistants that were support troops for their endeavor, all dead.   
John Steed. 

John Steed had to be dead. 

Crawling forward, Bond smelled the acrid odor of smoke and took a look at Emma Peel, who was hugging carpet between Illya and Flint. She caught his eye and he saw the terror in her gaze. It seemed foreign to her very nature, but she knew why she was afraid, and it was not for herself. 

Damn Steed. Why did he have to be here? Why did he have to be the one to die? 

Solo was at his side, UNCLE Special in his hand. "Bond. They may be waiting for us to come out." 

He whipped his head around to face Solo, his face reddened with anger. "Then we won't disappoint them. You want to stay and let 20 stories collapse on you?" 

"I just suggested it to let you know," said Solo, tersely, and looked aggravated. 

"Napoleon," said Illya. "Let's go ahead. Are you with me?" 

"We're all with you, Illya," said Flint, a rather conventional gun in his hand. "Come on." 

Mrs. Peel looked at them and, in a tone icy with agony, said, "Incorrect, Mr. Flint. Not all of us...are here...to be with you." 

The waiters and the rest of the restaurant staff were reacting with predictable horror. God knew what was going on up in the rest of the building. How many men, how many women, had died just because some idiot had decided to make a San Francisco office building his personal war zone? 

Bond said to Emma, "We understand, Mrs. Peel. Now, let's be on with it." 

She nodded, once, from her crouching position, like an ice sculpture. The five of them began to move towards the front door and window. 

The maitre-d of the place ran forward from the back, a covered metal dish on his arm, probably not even aware it was there. He was screaming about a bomb, which was understandable, and the rest of the personnel weren't too far behind him in panic. Solo stuck out a leg and tripped him. He went flying, kissed carpet, and scattered a platter of eggs, hotcakes, coffee, sausage, toast, and syrup all over the floor before him for a good ten feet. 

Solo grinned. "You prefer over-easy, Illya?" 

Flint was on his feet, turned to the waiters, waitresses, cashiers, and few patrons still left. "If there's a back way out of here, take it. In an orderly fashion, please. We'll handle this situation." 

One of the waitresses said, "But, sir, a--" 

"We'll handle it," Flint repeated. 

One look at the faces on the phalanx of five was all the hoi polloi needed. The uniformed people made their way quickly out the back. 

Bond led the way to the front window, smashed it with a blow of his gun, kicked down glass along the bottom edge. Illya was doing the same on the other side. Mrs. Peel kicked open the front door and Flint nudged through the opening, gingerly, gun at the ready. 

Outside, it was hell. Burning material in the street, some of it probably human, most of it remains of cars and furniture and God knew what. People. Screaming people. Men and women and kids, just driving, walking, whatever, interceded by an act of fate. No, of fatality. 

"We have to help," said Illya, decisively. 

"Help?" Bond was scanning the skies and the crowds who were forming. "Help what? We're not the bloody Red Cross. There's more here than we can deal with." 

"Then we shall deal with what we can," said Mrs. Peel, and trotted over to a screaming man who was holding a bloodied left arm. Within a few minutes, he had a torn-up part of his shirt to bite down on and another part of shirt forming a tourniquet. 

Bond had his gun holstered again--he considered he might be an idiot for that, but no one had followed up on the attack and their weapons would cause too much attention. He hesitated. Of course, he knew about emergency medicine, but damn it all, these were civilians... 

These were the people that people like him were supposed to protect. 

Before he knew it, he was directing a group of five people getting survivors out of a car that had been mostly demolished by a falling bit of building. He smashed in the window with his gun, again. A woman and her child were the only ones left of a family of four. 

Solo had activated his pen. "Open channel D," he said. In quick, clear tones, he explained the situation to his superior and got them to contact the local Red Cross and emergency services. Sirens were already audible. He, too, joined the others. 

Flint seemed most expert of them all at tending to wounded, even at calming down children. Emma worked like a machine--no, Bond considered, like a World War II-era nurse taking care of buzz-bomb victims. The five of them were open targets for any of the enemy, if enemies were present. But if there were, none had shown themselves. 

Lucky for them, Bond thought as he tied up a man's wounded arm. Just then, if anybody had taken a shot at any of them, he would have physically ground the attacker to atoms on the asphalt. 

The fire engines had arrived by this time, along with the ambulances. Specialized personnel with better equipment than the five of them had to hand. The five of them gave way to the professionals, and reassembled on the sidewalk across the street from the stricken building. A great fiery wound had been carved in it, and they could see the ceiling sagging from a floor above through the hole. There was smoke, and blackened material, and little else. 

Emma Peel turned away. Illya tried to put an arm about her, but she slapped it aside. He rubbed his bicep, wincing. 

Bond spoke up. "Emma. I'm sorry. Believe me." 

She wasn't facing him. She was looking at the ground, her eyes closed, and Flint and Solo looked as though they were glad Bond was doing the talking, not them. 

"He was a brother in arms," Bond continued. "We were not the greatest of friends, but I knew of his work." 

Emma looked up at him with blazing eyes. "Will you kindly stem the flow of your crocodile tears, Mr. Bond? I do not wish to speak with you at this time!" 

Solo cleared his throat. "Emma," he said, softly. "All we can do at this point is--avenge him. And we will." 

Flint was behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, and, for whatever reason, she did not shrink away. "John Steed was a great man," he murmured. "And he left us a great job. If you wish to stand away for awhile, Emma, we'll understand." 

"You do not understand a solitary thing," she said, and the break in her voice was clear. "You do not--understand--a singular--solitary--thing--" 

Illya was the first to perceive the persons approaching them. He had his Special out as he turned. 

Four men, one woman, all of them persons whom the five of them had met in the League's office just a day ago. And one other, in a bowler hat, carrying an umbrella, and looking as grim as Emma had ever seen him. 

"Perhaps I understand, Emma," he said. "Now, shall we find a place to do business?" 

For a long moment, Emma Peel could not speak. The clenching and unclenching of her hands was as much of an emotional tell as Bond had seen from her in their short association. The look in her eyes, though, was unmistakable. With but a nudge, Bond felt sure Emma would have run into the man's arms. 

Instead, she managed to compose herself reasonably, and said to John Steed, "Welcome back to the living, Steed." 

Steed looked out at the scene on the street before them. "Not for all of us, Mrs. Peel. Not for all of us. Gentlemen, you see what we're up against." He looked at them, inquisitorially. 

Bond stepped up to him, and offered him a cold expression and an open hand. 

Steed took the hand, shook it, and gave him the expression back. 

Then Bond smiled, tightly. "Good to have you back, John. Shall we find our schoolyard bully, now?" 

Steed replied, "With all due haste, Mr. Bond. With all due haste." 

To be continued... 

NOTES FOR PART 3: 

"One eye in Alexander Scott's face opened, warily." Alexander Scott is a Rhodes scholar and top American agent, whose cover is as a traveling tennis pro. He appeared in the I SPY television series. 

"'Yeah, yeah, yeah,' said Kelly, impatiently." Kelly Robinson is Alexander Scott's fellow agent, who poses as his tennis trainer. He appeared in the I SPY television series.   



	4. Chapter 4

The League Extraordinaire: Part 4 

by DarkMark 

Marcel had two chefs. Both of them were in hiding, now, unable to defy fear enough to peer over the edge of the freezer behind which they crouched. The man whom they feared knew they were there, and knew that they knew he knew, and didn't care. They did not figure into this equation. 

The man was tall, powerful, and deeply tanned. His hair was clipped almost to a skullcap. He wore a brown business suit and a conservative red tie and brown patent leather shoes. He held Marcel in one hand, by the neck, hoisting his feet a couple of inches off the floor. Marcel's three bodyguards were littered about the place with holes in various places of their bodies. Most of the holes had been made by bullets, some by other means. 

"Talk," said the man. 

"Let me down," gasped Marcel, whose finger had been broken when the man tore the gun from his hand. "Please, let me down." 

"Who is it?" The man paused. "Who's the one eating into your drug shipments?" 

"I, I cannot tell you," he gasped. "I do not know his name, bon Dieu, I know it not!" 

The man dropped Marcel to the floor, grabbed the upper arm whose hand contained the broken forefinger, and yanked him into the kitchen. To say he yanked him "roughly" would be an underdescription. His face did not seem to change expression. The two chefs could not see it, though. 

The man's eyes raked the area of the kitchen in an instant. They paused only at the opaqued window, and then returned to another point. An iron capable of processing sixteen waffles at a time. It was plugged in. With his free hand, the man tripped a switch. 

"No," said Marcel, who had personally murdered seven rivals and ordered the deaths of many others. "No, please, I have told you I do not know." 

The man's immovable grip on his arm did not waver. The pleading went on. Idly, the man noted a red light on the waffle iron coming on. 

Neither of the chefs could hear the thing being opened. They did not have to. A second later, they heard a sizzle, and a scream. 

They held their ears but could not shut it out. Nor could they shut out the smell. The scream and the smell went on for a good while. In the midst of it they thought they heard it punctuated by what could have been words, one of which sounded like "Woo" or "Foo" or something of that order. Then the wordless scream resumed. 

Then they heard the body of their employer falling on the floor. He had been released. They heard him weeping, and calling on God and the Blessed Virgin repeatedly. 

There was a sharp report and then there were no more petitions to Heaven. 

The man walked away from their employer. They heard him coming towards them and cringed. He walked past them, heavy in his patent leather shoes, yet stepping quietly. He did not favor them with a glance. They were not in his equation. 

They saw the back of him exit through a doorway. A few seconds later, they heard the front door of the apartment close, softly. 

One of the cooks stole a look around the freezer and wished he had not. He could not see all of Marcel, certainly not the part which the man had shot. But he saw the hand, the one which still had a broken finger and showed the patterns of the waffle iron that had burned the skin off it in several places. 

That was bad enough. He turned his head away, towards his brother. His brother knew well enough not to look. Neither of them wanted to ask the other when they should arise from their position, or when they should call the gendarmes, or what to say to them if they did. 

But the man who had looked knew that his brother had heard Marcel speak of the assailant, and that when he did, Marcel had spoken in fear. So, wetting his lips with his tongue, he managed to get out several words. 

"That man," he said. "Who was that man?" 

After a few more seconds, when he was certain enough that no gold-skinned apparitions were going to appear in the doorway if he said what he knew, the brother replied. But he spoke in a whisper. 

"His name is...Savage." 

-L- 

San Francisco's Chinatown is located on the northeast end of town, south of Little Italy and jostled by Russian, Telegraph, and Nob Hills. It was unthinkable that Fu Manchu would not be basing part of his operation there. But it wasn't the Limehouse District of London, by a sight, and Bond supposed that Si Fan members would be as obvious to locals there as Mafiosi would be among the Italians. 

Solo and Illya had broken off to visit persons they termed as "old friends who might be of help". Steed remained like a spider in his web at a safe house in a building off Lombard Street. That left Mrs. Peel, Flint, and Bond himself. The three of them were in a borrowed Camaro. Emma had insisted on sitting in the back with Flint, and was talking with him in friendly fashion. Bond, at the wheel, swore inwardly and thought he caught Mrs. Peel looking at him once, and smiling. 

"You do remember where we're going, don't you?" he said, keeping his voice level. 

"Oh, yes, Mr. Bond," said Emma, agreeably. "To Chinatown. Hopefully to have lunch, gather information, and be endangered by the Si Fan. A usual boring day." 

"Hopefully not that boring," said Flint, "with such pleasant company." 

Bond was glad there was a red light at the next corner. After he stopped, he turned his head back to Flint and Emma, but mainly to Flint. "Flint, let me ask you something," he said. 

Sobering just a bit, Flint said, "Anything, James." 

"Have you had the orifices of your head probed with wire?" 

Emma's eyes widened, but her mouth stayed closed. Flint had time enough to get out, "Well, no, but--" 

"I have," said Bond. "It happened during my last assignment. Ever had your manhood struck repeatedly by a carpet beater? Or been kicked nearly to death by two yobboes wearing football boots?" 

"James, I've had my share of rough times," said Flint. "During the War, I've..." 

"I can imagine you've seen hard treatment," Bond responded. "In our line of work, you don't get out without taking your share of bumps." 

"The light's changed, James," said Emma, quietly. 

Bond put his foot on the gas before he had finished turning his head to the windshield. "What I want to let you know is that I count myself damned lucky if all I pick up on each assignment is one scar. If the two of you would like me to drive around the nearest park so that you can hug and neck like a pair of schoolchildren, that's fine. If not, I suggest that you keep your mind on the problem at hand." 

"Mister Bond," said Emma, coldly, "I've had devices inserted into my ears that almost destroyed my brain. It took surgery to get them out." 

"Emma," said Flint. 

Ignoring him, she plowed on. "I've faced Cybernauts, which are a sort of robot that could squash your head like a melon in the crook of its arm. I've been sat on a ducking stool and held under water until I was at the point of drowning, repeatedly. I have been shot at, attacked physically, and all the rest. Perhaps it's not as impressive as your catalog of complaints, but it will do, thank you." 

"James, if I might," said Flint. 

"Now--" Bond began, still trying to watch the road. 

"James, please," said Flint, forcefully. "Mrs. Peel and I haven't been having a conversation at your expense. I'm sorry if it seems to you as though you're the third person out. It wasn't planned that way." 

"We're on assignment," said Bond. "Try and bloody act like it, would you?" 

After a pause, Flint said, "All right, James. All right." 

None of them said much of anything until they reached their destination. Bond pulled the car to a stop in one of the parking spaces on one of the slanting streets of Chinatown. Before them was a restaurant, parked between a newsstand that featured papers in Chinese as well as English, and a curio shop. The restaurant bore a sign, The Green Lantern, alongside which hung a paper lantern.   
Bond was thinking about what trouble women were on an assignment. Even if they did appear to be as capable as Emma Peel. He held his hand out to her as she opened the door, trying for a bit of reconciliation. She spurned it and walked past him. Flint, getting out, gave James an even gaze. Bond brought up the rear as they went inside the restaurant. 

A Chinese woman in fairly authentic period dress met them on the inside and conducted them to a table. Bond noted the statuette of what appeared to be a warrior on a shelf along the wall as he passed. The warrior was holding a spear, which was pointed downward, not at the viewer. "Ancestor of the owners?" he asked the waitress. 

"Oh, no," she said, quickly. "That's the General. He brings us good luck. And customers." 

"Such statues are found in many restaurants like these," noted Flint. "The General is a heroic warrior in a lost cause. Something like Robert E. Lee in our country." 

"Quite knowledgeable, Mr. Stone," said Emma. 

Flint shrugged. "I pick things up." 

"I'm sure you do," noted Bond, dryly. To the Chinese woman, he said, "Actually, we'd like to speak with Mr. Lee. Mike Fat Lee, I believe. He should be expecting us." 

"Oh? And your name, sir?" 

"Hazzard. Mark Hazzard." 

"I shall ask. Please wait here." 

Bond leaned against a wall and tried not to watch his two partners too closely. He knew his temper had driven a bit of a wedge amongst them. He regretted it, along one track of his mind. Another track called him a proper idiot and suggested that the three of them were professionals, not friends. When the time came, they'd work as a unit. 

But as efficiently as they would have had he kept his mouth shut? 

One would have to see. 

The woman returned. Her expression seemed neutral. "Please come this way," she said. 

Bond chanced a look at Flint and Emma. Flint nodded slightly. He was on guard, God bless him. Emma seemed to be, too. Perhaps they'd pull this one off without too much of a bindle. 

The woman led them past the dining and cooking areas (Bond judged the fare more than decent, from the brief glance and whiff he had of it) and into the proprietor's office. He was a man in his early Fifties, hair parted in the middle, wearing a conservative suit of black and tinted glasses. He had an orderly but large desk, and he smiled. 

Then he took a gun from his drawer. Bond had his weapon in hand before the man finished opening it. Flint did the same. 

Their host wasn't pointing his gun at them. Rather, he had it pressed against his own temple. 

"You wish me to tell you about the Si Fan," he said. "Tell me why I shouldn't blow my own head off, instead." 

To be continued... 

Notes for part 4: 

"The man was tall, powerful, and deeply tanned." Savage, an American secret agent who works for the Committee. He was originally trained as a teenager in World War II by Gen. Simon Mace, whom he later prevented from killing President Lyndon Johnson in HIS NAME IS SAVAGE #1, Savage's only appearance. Savage was created by Gil Kane. 

"Have you had the orifices of your head probed with wire?" Bond did, in COLONEL SUN. 

"Ever had your manhood struck repeatedly by a carpet beater? Or been kicked nearly to death by two yobboes wearing football boots?" And these two things happened to him in CASINO ROYALE and DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER, respectively. 

"During the War, I've..." Flint's World War II career is briefly alluded to in OUR MAN FLINT, the novelization by Jack Pearl. 

"I've had devices inserted into my ears that almost destroyed my brain. It took surgery to get them out." This happened to Emma in THE PASSING OF GLORIA MONDAY (Avengers novel #2). 

"I've faced Cybernauts, which are a sort of robot that could squash your head like a melon in the crook of its arm. I've been sat on a ducking stool and held under water until I was at the point of drowning, repeatedly." Emma encountered the Cybernauts in the Avengers episodes "The Cybernauts" and "Return of the Cybernauts". The ducking stool incident happened in "Murdersville."   



	5. Chapter 5

The League Extraordinaire  
  
Part 5  
  
by DarkMark  
  
The phone rang while he was hard at work on his manuscript. He didn't curse, except mentally. His right hand stabbed out from the keys of his typewriter, wrapped its fingers quickly about the receiver, and pulled it off so abruptly the body of the phone fell to the floor. He didn't bother picking it up.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Good afternoon, John. Please don't hang up." The voice was a familiar one.  
  
"Thirty seconds to convince me why I shouldn't." The irritation was replaced by a calm which surprised even himself. But it was mounting to anger.  
  
"We've got an extremely dangerous matter on our hands. Wouldn't call you otherwise."  
  
"Didn't know you cared."  
  
"The ministry feels you could be of use in this one, John."  
  
"I am of no use to you and little more to myself. The answer is no."  
  
"The situation is such that the entire world may be imperilled. We felt that, with your expertise--"  
  
"I am sorry, but the answer is still no. You have capable men in your employ. We both know that."  
  
"John, we were not responsible for what happened to you after your resignation."  
  
"Weren't you? Whether you did it or not, I'll wager you knew of the abduction. And where I was taken."  
  
"The very fate of the Free World may be at stake, John."  
  
"It was very frequently when I was knocking about for you. Somehow, it survived while I was absent from it. Send some of your other men."  
  
"We have, John. But we'd feel more secure if you were there, even in just an observer's capacity."  
  
"I held an observer's capacity for better than a year, and I lost my taste for it. My answer, sir, is still no."  
  
"Are you certain, John?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"A single D-notice to the publishers here, and your book will not be published within Britain. Indeed, you'll be lucky to find a market for it anywhere."  
  
"As a matter of fact, I wasn't expecting to get it published over here. But the imported copies might even rival Lady Chatterley's Lover for sales. My publisher will be an American. They'd love to have all the details. And by the way, don't bother threatening me. Certain manuscripts can find their way into the hands of the papers before you can slap your D-notices on them. Here, and abroad."  
  
"You're making this difficult, John."  
  
"I intend to."  
  
A sigh. "If you reconsider, you know where to reach me. We've not even cancelled your old designation. Your number's still there, if you want it."  
  
A long pause, broken only by the sounds of heavy and angry breath. Then:  
  
"I would think that your files on me would be a bit more updated than that, sir. I would think that you knew that I have developed a particular aversion to being filed. Or indexed. Or encapsulized. Or NUMBERED!"  
  
The last was shouted out, and the veins stood out in his neck as he did it. He didn't even give his old boss the chance to reply. He scooped the telephone body off the floor, slammed the receiver down upon it, and stood up for a few seconds to give himself time to resume his normal breathing.  
  
He looked at the page in his typewriter. Page 85 of his expose, THE VILLAGE IDIOT.  
  
The phone began to ring again.  
  
John Drake ignored it, sat down, and got back to work.  
  
-L-  
  
"No one can give you that answer, Mr. Lee," said Bond, calmly. "So, if you want to blow your own head off, go right ahead. None of us will stop you."  
  
The restaurant owner sighed, released his finger-tension on the trigger, took the gun away from his temple, and lay it on the desk blotter. "Perhaps it would be best, Mr. Hazzard. Perhaps it would be far better."  
  
The tension receded a bit. Flint took a post near the door, standing with his arms folded, gun still in hand. Bond replaced his own weapon. Emma had not drawn any armament from her shoulder bag. There were two white formica chairs before the desk. Bond and Emma sat in them.  
  
"Who has sent you here?" asked Lee.  
  
"We are interested in the Si-Fan," said Emma Peel. "We were directed to you, Mr. Lee. Why, I have no idea. Are you a member?"  
  
Lee looked as though she had accused him of buggery, for an instant. Then he composed himself. "No. I am not, madame. But I will not reveal how or why I acquired my knowledge. Such information is, perhaps, more dangerous than what I know of the enemy."  
  
"Did you work for Nayland Smith?" said Bond, abruptly.  
  
Lee stared at him.  
  
Emma looked at Bond. He said, "It's not a hard guess. Smith was known in the trade for his activities. They called him the one man who could deal with Fu Manchu–" (At this, Lee flinched.) "–but of course, he had a lot of help in dealing with him. Not all of that help was, forgive me, Caucasian."  
  
The Chinese man took a deep breath. "No offense taken, Mr. Hazzard. My duties for Smith were not known to many. As the Doctor had agents who were not Chinese, so, too, did Smith have help in, so to say, the other camp."  
  
"How long ago was that?" asked Emma.  
  
"The 1940's," said Lee. "The Revolution was in progress in China. Her Majesty's government, of course, did not want the Communists to succeed. But it did have the effect of throwing the Brotherhood into chaos, just as, in Italy, Mussolini had briefly oppressed the Mafia. I was a young man then. I had been in the War, and then was given the chance to aid Smith's operations. I did so."  
  
Flint spoke up. "We appreciate your trust, Mr. Lee. Rest assured, neither I, nor my associates, will disclose your role in this, or what roles you may have had."  
  
Lee shrugged, resignedly. "Like the Triad, the Brotherhood watches. They may already know. What can I tell you? What do you already know?"  
  
"You may have heard of the missile attack on an office building today," said Bond. "We have reason to believe that was engineered by the Si-Fan."  
  
After a moment, Lee said, "And you may have precipitated such an attack on this establishment by being here. Mr. Hazzard, your name is quite appropriate."  
  
Emma ventured, "Mr. Lee, we can take you to a place of safekeeping."  
  
"You can take my family to a place of safekeeping, and I will see what has to come," said Lee. "The missle attack. Unbelievable. In this country."  
  
"Yes, Mr. Lee," agreed Flint. "In this country. Unbelievable. Which makes it imperative for us to find the party responsible, and destroy their capacities for doing such. And perhaps to destroy them."  
  
"Oh? And how successful have they been? The Si-Fan has stood for centuries. As have the Union Corse, the Mafia, the Triad. All opposed, all held in check, all mostly prisoner of their wish only to be parasites, not conquerors. But Fu Manchu–" He looked beyond them, into memory. "Now, there was a conqueror."  
  
"To the point, Mr. Lee," said Emma. "We may not have much time."  
  
"Besides which, as a conqueror, he's been about as lucky as SPECTRE," said Bond. "Which is to say, not much. Bridesmaid rather than bride."  
  
Lee looked almost insulted. "SPECTRE's hierarchy, I understand, has changed. So have that of the other brotherhoods in the world. For the last fifty years, the Si-Fan have been the sole domain of Fu Manchu. There is evidence that the atomic bomb, the laser, were both discovered fundamentally by him ages before the West. His life and youth are extended by a potion beyond the knowledge of the greatest modern researchers. It is also rumored that his learning extends beyond that of the strictly scientific, into the parascientific, into that which you would call the supernatural. I would be loath to dispute that sort of claim."  
  
"He's been beaten, though," said Bond. "By ordinary policemen, I hear, or M.I.6 men."  
  
"Stopped, yes," said Lee. "Beaten, no. I doubt that Fu Manchu will ever be beaten, Mr. Hazzard. I believe the Si Fan will always exist."  
  
"Then what do you have to tell us of their activities here?"  
  
For a long moment, the restauranteur did not answer. Then he spoke. "Chinatown is, as you might surmise, Mr. Hazzard, a hard place in which to hide things. Though not impossible, edges tend to stick out. There is evidence of certain persons in these streets unknown since the days, I might say, of the Tongs. At certain dark times, comings and goings, seen by only a few, and whispered about by fewer still of them. But things have been heard of, Mr. Hazzard, and possibly seen, meaningless to most, but to one who knew the Si-Fan–" He made a short movement with his hand. "Most unsettling. To be sure."  
  
"To be sure," said Bond.  
  
"Mark," said Flint, in caution. His arms were uncrossed. He looked at the door. He had, Bond guessed, heard something.  
  
There were a number of footsteps coming down the hall. Emma was already pressed into the corner of one wall, a small gun from her bag in hand. Bond looked at Lee, and the latter was already up, ready to take what shelter he could.   
  
The Walther was in Bond's hand.  
  
Then the voice came: "It's us," it said. "Your uncles."  
  
Bond relaxed a bit and swore, softly. Then he said, "Who've you got with you?" There were more than two sets of footsteps.  
  
"A pair of old friends," said Illya. "Can we come in now?"  
  
Bond looked at Flint and Emma. They gave no objections. "All right," said Bond.  
  
The door swung open. Solo and Illya herded in two persons before them, not forcibly, just ushering them over the threshold. One of Lee's waitresses was visible in the back, looking nervous. Both were an older couple. The man was six feet in height, with an immaculate silver beard, and the word "distinguished" was entirely inadequate, though he walked with a limp. The woman with him, obviously his wife, complimented him.  
  
"How do you do," said the man, in a British way.  
  
Napoleon Solo, looking as though he'd been in something about which he'd have to brief them (as did Illya), said, "Lady and gentlemen, two of my friends from this city: Mr. and Mrs. Ward Baldwin. They used to work for the opposition, but we've worked together several times. They have one thing to say, then we all have to get the hell out of here."  
  
"Send the girl away," said Ward Baldwin, "and I will speak. If Mr. Lee comes with us."  
  
Lee stiffened. "What is it? Leave us, Lisa," he said. The girl, looking a bit relieved, walked down the hall twice as fast as a waitress ought to. Kuryakin closed the door.  
  
Bond was not eager to take on another charge. If anyone else came aboard, he thought, they might as well give every member of Parliament a gun and ship them over. But at least Baldwin looked like a man who belonged there. Not in the action, but in support.  
  
He didn't look as though much disturbed him, but his voice was very low when he said it.  
  
"A bomb," he said. "Fu Manchu's building a cobalt bomb."  
  
To be continued...  
  
Notes for part 5:  
  
"Good afternoon, John. Please don't hang up." John Drake, British former secret agent who appeared first in the series DANGER MAN and SECRET AGENT, and, after resigning from the service, was kidnapped to the Village, where he became Number 6 in THE PRISONER.  
  
"Weren't you? Whether you did it or not, I'll wager you knew of the abduction." Hours after turning in his resignation, John Drake was gassed unconscious and awoke to find himself a part of an island community of agents from various powers, held there by shadowy forces represented by the ever-changing Number Two. Names were forbidden in the Village, but each and every inhabitant had a number. Drake's was Number Six. Eventually he succeeded in escaping the Village, liberating its prisoners, and returning to London, as shown in THE PRISONER. There were indications that the British government knew of his abduction, and, whether or not it was an active particpant, did nothing to rescue him.  
  
"Page 85 of his expose, THE VILLAGE IDIOT." This book appears in DC's THE PRISONER series, though we may not consider that canonical.  
  
"SPECTRE's hierarchy, I understand, has changed." It had to, after Ernst Stavro Blofeld retired and then was killed by Bond in YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE.  
  
"There is evidence that the atomic bomb, the laser, were both discovered fundamentally by him ages before the West. His life and youth are extended by a potion beyond the knowledge of the greatest modern researchers." Fu Manchu's exploration into the secrets of atomic power are told of in Cay Van Ash's TEN YEARS BEYOND BAKER STREET. His discovery of the laser is delineated in Van Ash's THE FIRES OF FU MANCHU. The longevity potion, known as the Elixir Vitae, appears in several of the Sax Rohmer novels.  
  
"He's been beaten, though," said Bond. "By ordinary policemen, I hear, or M.I.6 men." Most often by Denis Nayland Smith and Dr. Petrie in the Fu Manchu novels, but occasionally by others such as Shan Greville or Tony McKay.  
  



	6. Chapter 6

The League Extraordinaire  
  
part 6  
  
by DarkMark  
  
"Say that again," said Bond. "Just for confirmation."  
  
Illya Kuryakin interrupted. "You heard him the first time, Mr. Bond. It's a cobalt bomb. Fu Manchu is building one. Go on, Mr. Baldwin."  
  
The coterie of persons there, except for Lee, were trained not to betray much anxiety, especially before civilians. But the signs were there, for those who had been in the business. Peel, Flint, Solo, and Illya all were showing them, and Bond imagined he was, too. Well, they had a bloody right to.   
  
This thing had gotten bigger than even M probably bargained on.  
  
Flint, hands on his front pockets, leaned closer. "Mr. Baldwin, how are you sure of your information?"  
  
Ward Baldwin said, "Because in THRUSH, we were working on it ourselves. We didn't get very far with it. Project C it was called, our own version of the Manhattan Project. But it was beyond us. Eventually, we aborted the operation. Much the better for you, Mr. Solo." He fixed Napoleon with a slight stare. Baldwin was Solo's friend, but neither of them forgot that they had once played on opposite sides.  
  
"And the two of you had been in THRUSH?" asked Emma Peel.   
  
"Mr. Baldwin was a director of THRUSH," explained Mrs. Baldwin. "That is, before our new affiliation and the fall of the Company. Indeed, we helped Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin bring it down."  
  
"He used to be friends with our late Mr. Waverly," Solo explained. "That, and a couple of collaborations against a common enemy, helped bring him to our side."  
  
Bond said, "A cobalt bomb. I've no knowledge of such a thing, but I've heard of its potential. Flint?"  
  
The silver-haired agent looked at Bond tensely. "The yield on a cobalt bomb would dwarf that of a common A-bomb in orders of magnitude. The fallout would be the greater danger, though, theoretically."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"It could wipe out most of the life of a continent. Depending on the size of the blast, of the amount of fissionable material–"  
  
Bond held up his hand. "Understood, Flint. Let's let Mr. Baldwin talk."  
  
Baldwin rested his head on both his hands. "THRUSH gave Fu Manchu the open door themselves. We tried to recruit him through our English branch. This was during an operation in which Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin were involved, themselves. I believe the code designation was 'The Rainbow Affair,' am I not right?"  
  
"Correct, Mr. Baldwin," said Solo. He glanced at Emma. The two of them had briefly met during that episode, no more than a glance down a hallway at MI5. Bond's superior, M, had directed Solo and Illya during that case.   
  
"In order to even attempt to entice him to join ranks, we had to give him some access as a trade-off," Baldwin continued. "Very risky, but we thought we could handle it. It involved showing him data from the Ultimate Computer."  
  
"Baldwin," said Illya. "You didn't."  
  
"We had to. We thought we had built in enough safeguards and firewalls to keep even him away from anything we didn't want him to see. Obviously...we underestimated him. A thing we had sworn we would never do."  
  
Lee said, "You thrust your hand into the den of the scorpion without a glove, and tried to strike a deal with him not to sting you."  
  
"Eloquently put, sir," said Baldwin. "And not inappropriate. There is no telling how long it took the Si Fan organization to hack into the Ultimate Computer. It would have become terribly easy, I fear, when UNCLE penetrated it in our last battle with them. But he possibly accessed it before then, as the data was erased and stored separately on data reels. And, during the fall of THRUSH, even those were destroyed in acid."  
  
"Another possibility," said Illya. "He might have gotten to the scientists on your project, and pumped the information from them."  
  
"I acknowledge that, Mr. Kuryakin," Baldwin replied. "Many of our personnel dropped out of sight following the fall. Some are undoubtedly dead. Others are simply in hiding. Even UNCLE has not been able to track very many of them."  
  
"To our great regret," said Solo. "But keep going, Ward."  
  
"I only learned of the thing myself when we received reports...excuse me, I should say UNCLE received reports...of a source of cobalt being hijacked within the Soviet Union, probably from a Project C of their own. This, from the earmarks of it, was by a group called CYPHER. Don't believe you've encountered them, but we know of them. In turn, the CYPHER agents were attacked by a band of what were described as Asiatics, and their bodies were left behind in, shall we say, somewhat unique conditions. The cobalt was not found, naturally."  
  
Mrs. Peel said, "And you believe, then, that Fu Manchu has the expertise technically to succeed where THRUSH and various governments have all failed? In the creation of this bomb?"  
  
Baldwin gave her the look a professor gives a backwards fourth-form student. "Madame, you commit the same sin as we in THRUSH did. There is no underestimation possible, when speaking of Fu Manchu. Not only is his skill in biological terrorism legendary, but this is a man who, years before the West managed it, plumbed the secrets of nuclear fission and the creation of the laser. Yes, he is capable of it. Moreover, if he has access to our Project C data and the cobalt with which to make it, we must assume that he is in the process of making it, or has already done so. Should the Red Chinese have his efficiency and intellect at their disposal, they would undoubtedly rule the world."  
  
"And if THRUSH had, we might have, as well," put in Mrs. Baldwin.  
  
"Mr. Baldwin," said Bond. "Perhaps you'll be so kind as to educate me on what Fu Manchu's objective is with this. The old world conquest thing? Extortion? Or something different?"  
  
Baldwin's lips grew thin, as he formulated an answer. "Only speculation is possible, Mr. Bond. What we can do is extrapolate from his past actions. True, Fu Manchu's goal is nothing less than world domination. That was the goal of all of our related agencies, in the end. But, since 1948, he has been blocked from one source of his power. His homeland. Since China went Communist, not only are his sources there dry, but he is forbidden access to the nation from whence he sprang. He is an ardent anti-Communist and, of course, one of his highest goals is to rule China himself and return it to its ancient days of glory, as he sees it. Chinese dominion of the world, and himself in domination of China. If any man can do it, he can."  
  
"Sounds as though he'd be quite attractive to the current American government as a player," said Bond, laconically. "But do go on."  
  
"Don't jest about that, Mr. Bond," said Mrs. Baldwin. "America has made deals with persons not much lighter than Fu Manchu's stripe, for their own security. If they thought they could control him, they would use him. Some have even tried."  
  
"As did Britain," Lee revealed. "But he would not deal with them, and they resumed their war."  
  
"One thing I'd like to know, Mr. Baldwin," said Flint. "That is, why here? And why now?"  
  
"And, Mr. Flint, you might well ask yourselves: Why you?" said Baldwin.  
  
"I didn't know we had anything to do with it," Flint answered.  
  
"The answer, Mr. Flint, is in history," Baldwin said. "Your own, that of THRUSH, that of the League, and that of MI5."  
  
Bond tensed. "Before you reveal any trade secrets, Mr. Baldwin, I must protest. And I will silence you, if I have to."  
  
"Bond, that's enough," said Illya. "Make a move on him, and our alliance is over."  
  
"Easy, Illya," said Solo, putting a hand to his partner's chest. "Bond won't hurt him. Just be very careful of what you say, Ward. Even from ourselves, we all have secrets."  
  
"Very well, then," said Baldwin. "To begin: the history of THRUSH dates back to an incident which happened in the waning years of the last century. You may have heard of it in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's edited version. It took place at the Reichenbach Falls, in Switzerland."  
  
"Sherlock Holmes," exclaimed Flint. "Moriarity."  
  
"Please, Mr. Flint, do not interrupt me. Yes. Mr. Holmes and Mr. Moriarity had their fateful battle. Both survived, but both went to ground. Mr. Holmes went undercover and did not emerge for several years thereafter, to avoid reprisals from Moriarity's associates, the Circle of Life. He himself believed James Moriarity to be dead. Whether that was the case vice versa with Moriarity vis-a-vis Holmes, we do not know and it does not concern us.  
  
"Two important things occurred as fallout from that event. First, most of Moriarity's old associates, particularly the directors of his operations, decided to continue operations as such, with a more clandestine bent and a greater emphasis on science. A meeting was held, and from it emerged the beginnings of what was soon called the Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity. THRUSH, for short.   
  
"The other was that Moriarity and a very small core of his trusted associates, among them Colonel Sebastian Moran, offered their services to MI5. And were accepted."  
  
Bond and Peel stared at Baldwin in what passed for shock.  
  
"There is more connection to it than that, by the way," Baldwin said. "Are you quite prepared for a revelation that may be unsettling, Mr. Bond? To you?"  
  
Slowly, Bond said, "I'll prepare myself."  
  
"One of Moriarity's most trusted agents, the go-between who directed the operations of a group of handpicked agents at the time, was one Campion Bond."  
  
Silence.  
  
"I am sorry, Mr. Bond," said Baldwin. "Secret history. But nonetheless true."  
  
Bond didn't say anything. He didn't even take note of the incredible presence of Emma Peel's fingers upon his arm, in an attempt to comfort. Or perhaps to hold him back.  
  
"At the time, this band, which had existed for over a century and was known as, I believe, the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen–the precursor of your own League, lady and gentlemen–included the likes of Dr. Henry Jekyll, Miss Mina Murray, a Mr. Griffin, one Allan Quatermain, and a legendary personage called Nemo. In their first case together, in 1897, they were assigned to stop a dastardly plot in Limehouse, which involved an attempted aerial firebombing of London."  
  
"Fu Manchu," said Flint.  
  
"Indeed," said Baldwin. "It was, to the League's knowledge, a contest between the government of Britain and Fu Manchu and the Si Fan. But in reality, it was a contest between James Moriarity and Fu Manchu himself. As we know, Moriarity–and the League–won."  
  
Bond nodded. "This is beginning to make more sense all the time," he said.  
  
Mrs. Baldwin visibly relaxed, hearing Bond's response. She had been afraid for a moment she might have had to pull the small gun from her purse and defend her husband. Ward Baldwin continued.  
  
"Sometime after that, Moriarity disappeared. God only knows what became of him, or perhaps the Devil does, more appropriately. Fu Manchu, of course, survived, and carried on many other operations in this century. By that time, he'd become the burden of Sir Denis Nayland Smith and Dr. Dexter Petrie, though, once, Mr. Holmes himself lent a hand against him. THRUSH itself was building up strength and operatives, and really came unto itself during the period between the World Wars and afterward. We managed to keep away from Fu Manchu's operations, for the most part. It was correctly judged, in my opinion, that he might still have bad blood for an organization which, whatever its present state, ultimately derived from one of his greatest enemies.  
  
"By the 1960's, the current management decided—against my objection, by the way—to put out peace feelers to Fu Manchu, in hopes of drawing him into the fold. Of course, it was useless, but he played us like an angler does a fish, for as much as he could get out of it, before dropping our offer flatly. As has been shown, he ended up getting quite a lot out of it."  
  
"Which proves that even the bad guys can be dumb, once in awhile," remarked Solo. "Especially about even badder guys."  
  
"All due respect, Mr. Baldwin," said Bond, "that still doesn't answer my question. Assuming he has the bomb. What is his objective?"  
  
Baldwin sighed. "His objective is multiple in this case, Mr. Bond. At least, if I judge him correctly, and, as has been pointed out, he is almost impossible to judge. But first, his motive of artistic irony: to construct such a weapon from data provided by an organization created by one of his direst enemies.   
  
"Second, of artistic revenge: to bring together, by leaking information, the descendants of a group which once stymied him over seventy years ago, and, forgive me for saying it, but—to destroy them.  
  
"Third, his literal objective. He wishes first to rule China. To do so, he constructs the bomb. But it must be demonstrated, even as the United States had to demonstrate the power of the atomic bomb twice to Japan. To be sure, conquest of the United States would be a feather in his cap. But it could be sacrificed, to a greater objective."  
  
A long moment of silence. At last, Bond said, "Say it."  
  
"I believe," said Ward Baldwin, "that he means to use it to destroy the United States of America."  
  
There was a good deal of looking at each other among the parties present, other than the Baldwins. Finally, Emma Peel spoke. "Then, our own first objective, artistic and otherwise, should be, how do we find him?"  
  
At that, Mrs. Baldwin became markedly peaked, and pitched over in her seat.  
  
Ward Baldwin caught her and righted her, seeing to her in an instant. But that was all he had before he fell forward himself, banging his head on the rug and the floor beneath it.   
  
Bond's gun was out by that time. The others had their weapons in hand. Flint, the nearest to the door, kicked it open and had a handkerchief to his nose. But it was a bit too late.  
  
Gas. Odorless, tasteless, undetectible gas.   
  
The five of them had been brought together, suckered, and trapped like amateurs. In his last second of consciousness, Bond cursed. The object of his curse was himself.  
  
A few moments later, a group of no less than ten gas-masked Asiatics entered the room. In Chinese, their leader said, "Take them all. Bind them. Frisk them. If one moves, shoot him. Otherwise, leave them for the master."  
  
Within five minutes, there was no one in the office of Mike Fat Lee.  
  
To be continued...  
  
Notes for part 6:  
  
Ward and Irene Baldwin are characters created for the Man From UNCLE novels published by Ace Books and written by David McDaniel. They appeared in THE DAGGER AFFAIR (#4), THE HOLLOW CROWN AFFAIR (#17), and the unpublished THE FINAL AFFAIR (#24).  
  
"Indeed, we helped Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin bring it down." This is a reference to the fall of THRUSH in THE FINAL AFFAIR (MFU #24).  
  
"He used to be friends with our late Mr. Waverly," Solo explained. "That, and a couple of collaborations against a common enemy, helped bring him to our side." The friendship was depicted in THE DAGGER AFFAIR (MFU #4). The collaborations were against DAGGER in the same book, and against THRUSH itself in THE HOLLOW CROWN AFFAIR (MFU #17). They defected to UNCLE in THE FINAL AFFAIR (MFU #24).  
  
"THRUSH gave Fu Manchu the open door themselves. We tried to recruit him through our English branch." This happened in THE RAINBOW AFFAIR (MFU #13).  
  
"The two of them had briefly met during that episode, no more than a glance down a hallway at MI5. Bond's superior, M, had directed Solo and Illya during that case." THE RAINBOW AFFAIR (MFU #13).  
  
The Ultimate Computer: The highly advanced computer in which THRUSH conceals and / or directs its top secret information. Appears in numerous UNCLE TV shows and novels. Destroyed in THE FINAL AFFAIR (MFU #24).  
  
"This, from the earmarks of it, was by a group called CYPHER." CYPHER appeared in several of the Shadow novels of the 1960's by "Maxwell Grant" (Dennis Lynds).  
  
"...this is a man who, years before the West managed it, plumbed the secrets of nuclear fission and the creation of the laser." These accomplishments were chronicled by Cay Van Ash in his novels TEN YEARS BEYOND BAKER STREET and THE FIRES OF FU MANCHU, respectively.  
  
"He is an ardent anti-Communist..." Fu Manchu's hatred of Communism, particularly since it blocked China from him, is acknowledged in Sax Rohmer's RE-ENTER FU MANCHU and EMPEROR FU MANCHU. In the latter, he is quoted as saying, "Communism, with its vulgarity, its glorification of the worker, I shall sweep from the Earth!"  
  
"You may have heard of it in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's edited version. It took place at the Reichenbach Falls, in Switzerland." In "His Last Bow". Also depicted graphically in LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY GENTLEMEN (LOEG) #5.  
  
"A meeting was held, and from it emerged the beginnings of what was soon called the Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity." Ward Baldwin first revealed this in THE DAGGER AFFAIR (MFU #4).  
  
"The other was that Moriarity and a very small core of his trusted associates, among them Colonel Sebastian Moran, offered their services to MI5. And were accepted." As shown in LOEG #5.  
  
"One of Moriarity's most trusted agents, the go-between who directed the operations of a group of handpicked agents at the time, was one Campion Bond." A shocking revelation from LOEG #4.  
  
"At the time, this band, which had existed for over a century and was known as, I believe, the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen–the precursor of your own League, lady and gentlemen–included the likes of Dr. Henry Jekyll, Miss Mina Murray, a Mr. Griffin, one Allan Quatermain, and a legendary personage called Nemo." The adventures of which were detailed in LOEG #1-6.  
  
"By that time, he'd become the burden of Sir Denis Nayland Smith and Dr. Dexter Petrie, though, once, Mr. Holmes himself lent a hand against him." Dr. Fu Manchu's dark deeds in the 20th Century were chronicled by Sax Rohmer in 14 books, starting with THE INSIDIOUS DR. FU MANCHU. He met Sherlock Holmes in several pastiches, but the one in which Holmes teamed with Dr. Petrie is Van Ash's TEN YEARS BEYOND BAKER STREET.  
  
"By the 1960's, the current management decided—against my objection, by the way—to put out peace feelers to Fu Manchu, in hopes of drawing him into the fold." Again, THE RAINBOW AFFAIR (MFU #13).  
  



	7. Chapter 7

The League Extraordinaire  
  
Part 7  
  
by DarkMark  
  
Bond woke up to the sight of Fu Manchu before him.  
  
There was slight nausea in his stomach from the gas, and he found his wrists manacled and chained to the wall behind him, like an old melodrama scene. His fellows were about him, also chained, and there were Chinese warriors on hand, all of them armed and deadly. But all of this faded into the background compared to Fu Manchu.  
  
The man's eyes were astonishing. True, they were of the "cat-green" that Dr. Petrie had reported in his memoirs, thanks to Nayland Smith's description. But they were more than that. They seemed to encompass a more than human knowledge, with the additional attribute of contempt for the human species below its owner. Which, he guessed, was just about everyone. It was like looking into the eyes of a snake, or the Devil.  
  
James Bond was no stranger to villainy. Goldfinger, Drax, Mr. Big, the accursed Blofeld, who had killed his wife, Scaramanga...he'd fought them all, and more besides, and beaten them. But nobody had beaten Fu Manchu. Only his plans.  
  
That was the being who faced him now, and spoke.  
  
"Good evening, Mr. Bond," said Fu Manchu.  
  
Bond looked at his partners, who were either awake or in a dreaming state. "That depends on your definition of 'good,' I suppose," he said, testing his arms idly against the chains. "But thanks for your consideration."  
  
"Politesse is a virtue. Consider yourself lucky you are a virtuous man," Fu Manchu noted. "I know of your reputation, and of these as well."  
  
Derek Flint was awake. "He wanted to make sure you were up before he began, James. Guess that's not very flattering to the rest of us."  
  
"Careful, Derek," said Emma, her chained hands in her lap. "Remember, we're guests."  
  
"Most unwilling guests," said Illya, glaring at their captor. "We haven't been fed yet. I'm hungry."  
  
Napoleon Solo, glancing at the Dacoits, said, "Easy, Illya. Our host might have you for dinner in another way than you expected."  
  
Fu Manchu gave Solo a cold look and the UNCLE spy decided to subside.   
  
Emma Peel spoke next. "Isn't this the place in which the villain brags of his plans to the captive heroes? What do you have in store for us, Doctor?"  
  
With an almost courteous air, Fu Manchu turned to the woman. "Mrs. Peel, your fate and that of the world will be intertwined. As you may have guessed, the bomb which I have constructed rests in these very premises. Within hours we will leave, and it will be activated. Your deaths should be quick and relatively painless."  
  
"Relatively," said Bond.   
  
"Precisely, Mr. Bond," Fu Manchu stated. "Do you think that the lovers whose image was etched on a Hiroshima wall before they were vaporized suffered much? I think not. Suffering is for those too far from the bomb, not those at Ground Zero. But do not think this is a revenge for the two atomic bombings. Japan could be carpet-bombed with the devices, and I would care not at all."  
  
Flint ventured, "Then what, sir, is the purpose of your demonstration? Simply to test the bomb's destructive power?"  
  
The mandarin said, "Only in part, Mr. Flint. The bombings at Hiroshima and Nagasaki demonstrated one object lesson: that power must be shown, before it is believed. Two such showings, and even the hardliners in the Japanese government were overruled. The surrender of that ignoble power, the attacker of my own homeland, was accomplished in a very short time thereafter."  
  
Illya Kuryakin huffed. "You don't care anything about the people you're going to kill in this 'demonstration'? Have you ever seen photos of the survivors of those bombings? The burn victims, the radiation-contaminated? It's hard to believe even you'd repeat that."  
  
"No, Mr. Kuryakin, it is not hard at all," Fu Manchu said. "Every day of the atomic age, at least two superpowers have been willing to repeat it, if need be. Your own government, and that of Mr. Solo, have held the nuclear saber at each other's throats for over twenty years now. During the Cuban Crisis, those sabers very nearly slipped. With the detonation of one cobalt bomb, the saber will be removed from one hand, and the other swordsman will be left confused. Unsure of which way to turn."  
  
"That's a damned big risk," said Bond. "There's no predicting what Russia or Britain will do, once the United States is attacked. They'll be looking for somebody to hit, and they'll hit them hard, once they make a decision."  
  
"Do not presume me to be a fool, Mr. Bond. A message will shortly be delivered to the governments of the U.S., the Soviet Union, Great Britain, and my native China. It will precede the triggering of the cobalt bomb by only minutes. They will know who authored the action of the day."  
  
"But will they believe it?" said Emma.  
  
"Certainly," he said. "Despite what they acknowledge, all said governments know of the power of the Si-Fan. And of Fu Manchu. They will believe."  
  
Flint said, "But to what purpose? I would think your grudge would be against Britain or the Chinese Communist government. I never thought you had a particular bone to pick with the United States."  
  
Patiently, Fu Manchu explained. "The United States is merely a testing ground, Mr. Flint. The world is locked into a tripod of power. Destroy one leg of the tripod, and the entire balance shifts and collapses. Neither Russia nor China has the secret of constructing such a bomb as I have. I shall demand the surrender of Russia, and the turnover of its weapons. I shall also insist on the abdication of the Communist government of the People's Republic of China, and the turnover of such power to me. Lest they become the second target of my bomb."  
  
Napoleon said, "So. You have a second bomb, as well as this one?"  
  
"I have what I have, Mr. Solo. I have what is necessary. The United States would not use their power aggressively to rule the world after the Second World War. Their mistake. I shall." He looked at his reluctant guests. "Is there anything more that you would wish to ask? If so, speak. This will be the only meeting all of us shall have."  
  
Bond said, "What about Mike Lee, and the Baldwins? Where have you got them?"  
  
"They are being held separately," said Fu Manchu. "They are not members of your organization. True, they will die along with you, when the bomb is detonated. But for you, I reserve the honor of being the first targets of my revenge. As the inheritors of those who balked me decades ago, it is only just. I only regret that Nayland Smith is not among you. If there was ever a foe that I loved, it was he. But...one works with what one has."  
  
"Nice to know," said Bond.  
  
Flint said, "What about your guards? Are you going to sacrifice them, as well?"  
  
Fu Manchu replied, "Regrettably, yes. They will give their lives for the dream. This has been explained to them. Do not bother trying to persuade them otherwise. Goodbye."  
  
The devil doctor made his exit. The guards did not seem to move so much as an eyelid.  
  
Bond said, "Well. Anyone for tennis?"  
  
Napoleon Solo, looking at him, said, "I'll serve." He reached in his mouth. One of the guards saw him, said something in Chinese, and raised his gun.  
  
Solo threw a tooth at him.  
  
The molar exploded in mid-air and showered the guard with acid. He screamed in pain and grabbed his face. Illya Kuryakin had already reached in his own mouth, pulled out a lining molded to the top of his palate, broke open a small cylinder, and poured the contents on a link of his chain. A second later, with the metal eaten through, he yanked himself free of the wall.  
  
Emma Peel kicked out her shoe, expertly catching a gunman in the eye with the spiked heel. Illya was swinging the chain in a deadly arc, catching two more of the guards in the face. He kicked a fallen gun to Solo with his heel while he did so.  
  
"Duck," said Napoleon, and fired.  
  
The other two guards who were still standing no longer stood. Flint smiled, tightly. "The men of UNCLE aren't overrated," he remarked.  
  
"Nice of you to notice," snapped Illya, smashing the chain over the head of one guard who was trying to rise.  
  
Bond humphed. "Thought the Chinese would have us all searched."  
  
"Oh, he did," said Napoleon. "A lot of the stuff we carried in our clothes was taken out. But the false tooth he missed. A little trick we adapted from an old friend."  
  
"What old friend?"  
  
"Savage. Clark Savage, Junior. Before our time. Illya, how's about getting us loose?"  
  
"Don't believe they're carrying any keys, Napoleon," remarked the Russian.  
  
"Then find someone who does," suggested Mrs. Peel. "Before that chap with 'the brow of Shakespeare' comes back and finds us."  
  
"They're already coming," opined Bond. "Bound to be. The sounds of those shots will carry."  
  
"In that case," Napoleon Solo said, "here's what you do."  
  
-L-  
  
In seconds, another contingent of guards burst into the room, weapons at the ready. The sight before them put them at full alert. All those who had been in charge of the prisoners lay on the floor...some unconscious, some bleeding, a couple obviously dead.   
  
On top of that, one of the prisoners, a black-haired male, sagged in his chains. His eyes were upturned and he was wearing a bloodstained shirt with a hole in it.  
  
"You bastards," yelled Bond. "You bloody bastards. They shot the American."  
  
Emma Peel chimed in, "Yes, you big, brave men. Why don't you shoot the lot of us? We're right here in front of you, in chains!"  
  
The door swung shut behind the guards. "Not all of us," said Illya.  
  
He didn't need more than seven shots, in all.  
  
Following that, Illya braced the door shut with one of the bodies and rifled their pockets. "Come on, Russki, come on," urged Bond.   
  
"James," reminded Flint. "It's not as though Fu Manchu intended to free us, you know."  
  
Illya looked up from the last. "Nothing we can use. Sorry."  
  
"Damn," said Emma Peel. "Give me a gun, Illya."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Give me a gun!"  
  
Silently, Kuryakin handed her a weapon. She checked it and turned to Bond. "Pull away from the wall. Make those chains tight."  
  
"As you wish," said Bond, and obeyed. The gun rang out. Bits of metal pelted Bond. She had shot through one of the links.  
  
"Risky, but we had to try it," remarked Emma.  
  
"At the least," quipped Solo, "you could get me out of this bloody shirt."  
  
The risk was taken for each of the chained parties and, thankfully, played out. The lot of them took their chains and pilfered guns in hand and went into the hall beyond. No one spoke.  
  
Bond wondered what the hell it would be like to tangle with Fu Manchu. He hadn't yet met the man who wouldn't go down before a bullet. Still...  
  
Subdued sounds from around a corner. Shadows. Bond held up his hand, but it was unnecessary. Flint, Solo, Illya, and Emma were all frozen against the wall, waiting.  
  
The shadows edged closer.   
  
Then came a voice.   
  
"Mrs. Peel? Mrs. Peel, it's me. Thank you for wearing such a distinctive perfume."  
  
"Oh," said Bond, lowering his weapon. "Damn."  
  
John Steed poked his smiling face around the corner, still wearing his derby.  
  
"Glad to see the lot of you," he said. "Even you, Bond."  
  
Mike Fat Lee and the Baldwins showed themselves. "You're free," said Ward Baldwin. "Really, I expected no less."  
  
Emma beamed. "John, what kept you?"  
  
"The signal in your stomach device was cut off," said Steed. "I wager Fu Manchu's radio-proofed these walls. Had to do it by deduction."  
  
"Well, I certainly hope your deduction is still in gear, Steed," remarked Flint.  
  
"Care to explain?"  
  
Bond said, "We've got something to find on the premises, John. A cobalt bomb."  
  
"Oh," said Steed. "Dear me."  
  
To be continued...   
  
Notes for part 7:  
  
"True, they were of the 'cat-green' that Dr. Petrie had reported in his memoirs, thanks to Nayland Smith's description." Dr. Petrie, the friend and assistant to Sir Denis Nayland Smith, archfoe of Fu Manchu, and author of several of the earliest Fu Manchu novels, edited by Sax Rohmer. Smith's description appears in THE INSIDIOUS DR. FU MANCHU.  
  
"Goldfinger, Drax, Mr. Big, the accursed Blofeld, who had killed his wife, Scaramanga..." In the novels GOLDFINGER, MOONRAKER, LIVE AND LET DIE, the trilogy of THUNDERBALL, ON HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE, and YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE, and THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN, respectively. Bond's wife Tracy died in OHMSS.  
  
"Savage. Clark Savage, Junior. Before our time." Doc Savage, heroic adventurer of the 1930's and 40's, chronicled in 181 pulp novels and several new adventures since then, under the "Kenneth Robeson" imprint. One of his gimmicks was a pair of false teeth which, when extracted and joined, formed an explosive.  
  
"Before that chap with 'the brow of Shakespeare' comes back and finds us." Another reference to Nayland Smith's description in THE INSIDIOUS DR. FU MANCHU.  
  



	8. Chapter 8

The League Extraordinaire:  
  
Part 8  
  
by DarkMark  
  
"Chief, for heaven's sake, you've got to let me and 99 into that situation."  
  
"No, Max. I want there to be something left after the situation is over."  
  
"Come on, Chief. Why won't you show any faith in me?"  
  
"I have a lot of faith in you, Max. That's why I'm not sending you into this assignment. Other agencies have appropriate people in there and if they ask CONTROL to step in, we will. But not until then."  
  
"The next thing you'll be telling me is that Siegfried isn't even involved with this thing."  
  
"Siegfried isn't involved in this thing, Max."  
  
"See?"  
  
"You've got other things to do, Max. Like writing up the reports on your last ten assignments."  
  
"I gave that job to Hymie."  
  
"Hymie is a robot, Max."  
  
"Are you going to be discriminatory towards robots, Chief?"  
  
"No, Max. I've hired too many of them. But I don't like Hymie's literary style. He always puts a '10' in front of every line."  
  
"Not every line, Chief. Just the first one. On the second one, he puts 20. On the third one..."  
  
"MAX."  
  
"Okay, okay, okay, Chief. But can't you believe that I'm the best qualified man to take on Fu Manchu?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Would you believe Auric Goldfinger?"  
  
"No."  
  
"How's about a couple of jaywalkers and a disturber of the peace?"  
  
"MAX."  
  
"All right, all right, all right, Chief. But what'll you say if the world is destroyed because I wasn't in there to handle things?"  
  
"You really want to know what I'll say, Max?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"'Missed it by about that much.'"  
  
-L-  
  
As the lot of them moved as quietly as possible down the halls of Fu Manchu's lair, Bond had something that had to be voiced. "Steed, exactly how do you propose to find this bomb, in the first place?"  
  
John Steed pulled out the handle of his umbrella several inches. "A Geiger counter, Bond. Just the thing for locating hard-to-find objects of mass destruction."  
  
"You came prepared for this sort of thing," Bond mused.  
  
"One tries, Bond," smiled Steed.  
  
"Charming," said Napoleon Solo. "One thing bothers me. Where the blazes are all the Si-Fans? Doesn't he have more people on guard than that?"  
  
Derek Flint, keeping his eyes on the hallways behind the group, said, "He knows we've escaped, Solo. I give him credit enough for that."  
  
Bond, a stolen gun in his hand, reflected on matters for a moment. Here they were, spies who had individually (and sometimes in pairs) saved the world, or democracy, or the present order, or something, time and again. They'd destroyed villains like Goldfinger, Mr. Big, the Cybernauts, GALAXY, and THRUSH, each on their own. All of them had, singly, faced death and violence innumerable times. That was part of the Great Game.  
  
So why in hell did he feel, here, like a boy about to venture into a snakepit?  
  
Emma noticed his expression and, for once, spoke to him with something like sympathy. "James. Are you all right? Relatively, that is?"  
  
"I'm fine, Emma. Just want to get this done and get out of here."  
  
"Understandable." She nodded. "If it helps, I'm feeling a bit tense myself."  
  
"We could do something about that later."  
  
"Not if you don't want both arms displaced, Mr. Bond."  
  
"Apologies, Emma. Just trying to ease the tension."  
  
"Myself as well. Shall we bury the hatchet till later?"  
  
"I'm in favor of chucking the axe entirely," he said. "As long as it lands in Fu Manchu's heart."  
  
Illya Kuryakin, shepherding Mike Fat Lee and the Baldwins, looked at the two of them. "Bojemoi. Will you keep your minds on work, please?"  
  
"Illya," said Emma, coldly. "Mine never really left."  
  
Steed made a chopping motion with his hand. The others stopped and fell silent. He displayed the umbrella handle to the rest. Bond and the crew could see a slight plastic inset within the metal umbrella's neck, flashing softly green in varying intensity. Steed swept the umbrella in an arc and stopped it on the backswing. He nodded at the direction indicated. The team of agents followed him.  
  
The hallways were painted a neutral color, and Bond, feeling of a wall as he came, guessed that the walls were reinforced by solid metal. Not a reassuring thought, somehow. He went forward with them towards a section of wall that seemed to have no door before it. Steed stood and thumped the wall section softly with the umbrella handle.  
  
"Only seems a bit less solid there than elsewhere," he remarked. "I propose we find a nearby door and try and enter through an interior wall, if poss—"  
  
His instruction was interrupted.  
  
An entire section of ceiling came apart in two halves and a squad of Si-Fan, weapons in hand, landed on their feet from an upper room. Others were joining them. There wasn't even time to spout obscenities.  
  
Illya threw Mike Fat Lee and the Baldwins flat on the floor as the others opened fire at the same time as the Si-Fan.  
  
Lead threaded the air, ricocheted off the metal walls. The deadly, poison-tipped knives that were the assassins' trademark appeared and struck very near their marks. Some of the Si-Fan fell. The League members managed to avoid that fate just barely.  
  
Flint was the first one to close with their foes hand-to-hand. He had two of the Si-Fan knives in hand and was putting them to deadly use. Moving like a ballet dancer with martial arts moves Bond had never even seen before, he killed four of the enemy within thirty seconds. For an instant, Bond allowed that Derek Flint might be the most formidable of all their number.  
  
No. He'd never settle for less than the top, himself.  
  
With a cry he barely took note of himself, Bond plunged headlong into the foe. He emptied his gun into them, smashed their heads against the walls, dodged clothes-ripping knives, kneed them in the crotch, went for their eyes, stomped them, hit them, battered them with his gun, picked up another from a fallen foe and blazed away, keeping the fire to directions other than those of his friends.  
  
Not exactly as he would have chosen, but he was familiar with the situation.  
  
In later times, his brain would have opportunity to process the scenes he caught just in fleeting. Emma Peel was delivering deadly kicks, smashing blows with fist and elbow, knife-thrusts and bullets from borrowed weapons, even stunning headbutts to the enemy. She seemed hardly less competent than Flint.  
  
Napoleon Solo was using more conventional karate, judo, and street fighting, but he was showing a vicious side of himself Bond wouldn't have credited him with. He choked an assailant from behind who was trying to get at Emma Peel. At the same time he used his elbow on the man's throat, his fingers were reaching out and doing something terrible and permanent to the Si-Fan's eyes. When the man dropped, Solo stamped his foe's head several times and things came apart.  
  
There was no other way to fight. If you gave the bastards quarter, you'd be in that very position yourself in seconds.  
  
John Steed slashed at his foemen with the deadly-sharp tip of his umbrella, blasting shots of deadly accuracy with a gun he'd brought himself. Illya Kuryakin was guarding their three allies, piling up his own total of corpses with shot and knife.   
  
Mrs. Baldwin looked as though she was about to throw up, despite her THRUSH experience. Given the battlefield look of the place, Bond didn't blame her.  
  
The fight seemed over in hours, but it couldn't have taken longer than ten minutes. Some of them had their own blood shed, but not substantially. Bond looked up from a man whose nose bones he'd just driven into his brain.   
  
The pile of dead about the hallway were all Si-Fan.  
  
Perhaps, Bond thought, whoever had chosen the members of the League Extraordinaire had known what he was doing, after all.  
  
That thought was interrupted by the sound of Mrs. Baldwin crying.  
  
Ward Baldwin was holding her in his arms, trying to comfort her. God knew what she had seen in her days in THRUSH, but still...there were some things you only could get used to by being in combat, yourself. He started towards them, meaning to offer a word of help. Emma stopped him, a hand on his arm.  
  
"No, James," she said. "That's his job."  
  
Reluctantly, he stopped. "What the hell. We have a bomb to find."  
  
Flint made a growling sound. They looked towards him.  
  
He was holding one of the Si-Fan corpses as though he meant to wring its dead head off. There was a look in his eyes Bond had only seen in that of the deadliest killers. He wondered if others sometimes saw it in him.   
  
The others were looking at Flint, and he seemed to notice them, then. Their faces all registered astonishment. He blinked, and looked at the body in his hands, and dropped it.  
  
"My apologies," he said.  
  
"Just so long as you're on our side, Flint," murmured Bond.  
  
An instant later, the lot of them were shocked by the noise of an explosion.  
  
Bond was shaken off his pins, finding his hand in the blood and grue of a fallen foe. The others seemed to be in similar positions, except Emma, who had braced herself against the wall, and Flint, who didn't seem to know how to fall. Bond looked at Steed. The other looked back, and the two of them took off down the hall in the direction of the blast.  
  
Rounding two corners, they stopped dead-still at the sight before them.  
  
Six Si-Fan lie unconscious on the floor, a vapor rising from their bodies. Beyond them, two persons stood, handkerchiefs pressed to their faces over their noses and mouths. Bond had never seen them before. They were a man and a woman. A very attractive brunette woman in a blouse, a short skirt and high boots. She was also carrying a gun.  
  
"Sorry," said the man, in a muffled British accent. "The gas grenade's louder than it should be. Hang back for a moment while it dissipates."  
  
Bond felt a bit woozy himself. He stepped back around the corner with Steed behind him, and both took breaths of fresher air before turning back. The man and woman followed them, stepping over their fallen foes.  
  
Steed leaned against the wall, using his umbrella to steady himself. "Excellent," he said. "You made it, after all."  
  
"You would be Mr. Steed?" The woman offered her hand to him, and he took it. The rest of her face was exposed now, and she was extraordinarily pretty.   
  
Bond's attention was drawn to the man, who had offered his hand for a shake. "And you must be Bond. Really, sir, it's an honor to meet you. Even in our bunch, we've got your picture on the wall."  
  
"Uh," said Bond, approximately, giving his hand for a shake. "Flattering, I suppose. Thanks."  
  
"Slate," said the other, with a British accent. "Mark Slate. UNCLE. Honored, sir."  
  
"My name is April Dancer," said the woman. "I'm also with UNCLE. Napoleon and Illya know us."  
  
"As do I," said Steed. "Glad you answered the invitation."  
  
Emma Peel hurried around the corner. "Steed," she said, with a look of concern. "Come quick."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said, come!"  
  
The four of them went with her. Bond tried to put a hand to Miss Dancer's eyes to shield her from the sight of death, but she pushed his arm away. Nonetheless, she went drop-jawed when she saw the shambles, and controlled herself only with a visible effort.   
  
"Bloody hell," said Mark Slate, slowly.  
  
The voice of Napoleon Solo was heard. "Get in here, all of you," he said, from within a room whose door had been opened. "Now."  
  
Steed, Slate, April, and Bond entered the room. Solo, Illya, the Baldwins, Lee, and Flint were inside. The only other things that were there were a largeish table and a mineral specimen.  
  
It was, Bond guessed, uranium. And not inside of a bomb.   
  
The spies kept their distance from it, but Bond could read their frustration, and felt it himself. Fu Manchu had suckered them.  
  
Illya Kuryakin produced a note. "He left us this," he said. "We've already read it. Care to?"  
  
Bond took it and began to read.  
  
To be continued...  
  
Notes for part 8:  
  
"Chief, for heaven's sake, you've got to let me and 99 into that situation." The speaker is Maxwell Smart, chief enforcement agent of CONTROL, who appeared in the GET SMART television series and novels. 99 is his fellow agent and partner, a woman who later married him. Their chief enemies were an agency known as KAOS. The Chief, whose name is Thaddeus, is Max's superior and constant foil.  
  
"Siegfried isn't involved in this thing, Max." Siegfried, a KAOS agent, was one of Smart's most frequent enemies.  
  
"They were a man and a woman. A very attractive brunette woman in a blouse, a short skirt and high boots." Mark Slate and April Dancer, respectively, two crack UNCLE agents who appeared in THE GIRL FROM UNCLE television show and novels.  
  



	9. Chapter 9

The League Extraordinaire 

Part 9

by DarkMark

The light-haired man in the sports jacket entered the men's room of the 707, though the use was unconventional. He placed his briefcase on his lap, took a miniature cassette player from it, placed it on the steel sink, ran an earplug from it to his right ear, and scrutinized some photos that had come with the tape.

"Good day, Mr. Phelps. The person you see before you in an artist's conception, which is all we have to offer you, is identified as one Dr. Fu Manchu. He is known most commonly as the leader of the Si-Fan organization, an Oriental terrorist network formerly based in China with the government's backing, now independent, thanks to the revolution, but nonetheless deadly. You will find more information on him in the packet included with this tape. What we have on him indicates that he and the Si-Fan are operating in San Francisco at this time. What objective he seeks, we do not know. Several other operatives from other agencies are said to be working on the case. They might need backup. Should you choose to accept this assignment, the government will deny any knowledge of you or your IMF operatives. Good luck, Jim. This message will self-destruct in thirty seconds."

Within just that time, a capsule of acid dissolved the cassette and player. Jim Phelps washed the remains of it down the drain, hoping it wouldn't damage the plumbing.

This one, he thought he'd leave to the other guys involved.

-L-

The note read:

Apologies tendered for absence. The game is already won. This clue is left only for your amusement. The note will be struck not two hours hence. From a high peak, the West will learn their vulnerability. The balance will fall in one's favor. Do not fall prey to regret. In your way, you are worthy of your predecessors. Farewell.

It wasn't signed, but it didn't need to be.

"Bloody hell," said Bond.

"Clueful," said Flint. "But there's any number of interpretations. 'From a high peak'...well, that could be any tall structure in town. Or perhaps the Golden Gate Bridge, I suppose. Or..."

"Flint," said Bond. "Shut up. I'm trying to think."

Derek Flint subsided, but gave Bond the first unkind look he'd ever tendered him.

"Within two hours," said Mrs. Peel, ignoring Bond. "Therefore, Fu Manchu can't be very far away, obviously within the city."

"Obviously, Mrs. Peel," said Steed. "Though any number of jet transports could take one a great distance, half a continent, in fact, within such time."

"No," said Illya, flatly. "Fu Manchu chose this city. He intends to make a statement, his version of an artistic work. He'd detonate the cobalt bomb here."

"I'd tend to agree, Illya," Mark Slate chimed in. "Which leads us back to the obvious question: where here?"

Napoleon Solo bent to observe the table. "And the table. Is it part of that...'artistic statement', Illya? Well?"

"Damn!"

The word came from Bond. He had to hold himself back from upsetting the table in his rage. "Of course it is! That uranium isn't in the center of the damned table. Don't you understand it? The table is San Francisco! The uranium is where he has the bomb!"

Steed's eyebrows raised as he brought the handle of his umbrella near his shoulder, holding the brolly by its furled ribs. "Bond. I hate to admit it, but I think you have something there."

"I'd say he does," said April. She turned to the Baldwins. "You've both lived here for years. Where does this correspond to, on a city map?"

"Depends on which way you turn it, dear," responded Irene Baldwin. "Of course, if this side was seaward..."

Ward Baldwin interrupted. "It's the building they're going to be opening in a week."

"What?" Steed looked up at Baldwin sharply.

"The Pyramid," said Baldwin. "The Transamerica Pyramid."

-L-

Solo got the word out to UNCLE within seconds. UNCLE got the word to the president, the Russian premier, and whoever else needed to know. Everyone agreed, though, that an obvious approach by the authorities might cause Fu Manchu to detonate the bomb ahead of schedule. That left it in the hands of the League and whatever forces could be brought to bear against their foe that could be done covertly.

Which meant, of course, that it was in the hands of the League.

The pyramidal building which was financed by the Transamerica Company was virtually complete and was scheduled to be opened the following week. Provided, of course, there was still a San Francisco on the following week. The Pyramid was all of 48 stories high, with a spire that ran many feet higher, and required "wings" on each side for a stairwell and elevator. When construction started in 1969, a sign had confidently announced the building would be up by 1972. Luckily, they'd been correct.

The Baldwins really didn't like it. They said that a number of historical buildings had to be destroyed on the site where the building was raised. They also found the architecture a bit whacky. Steed opined that, since Fu Manchu had some interest in Egyptology, the pyramid scheme of the building might have appealed to him thusly. Flint thought it might just be the artistic bit of using San Francisco's newest skyscraper to destroy the city.

The "high peak", everyone agreed, probably meant that the Si-Fan had the device at or near the very top of the Transamerica building. How they'd gotten the thing in there was anybody's guess. But, if anything, Fu Manchu was capable.

Just now, the League was a block away from the pyramid, parked in two large cars rented by Steed. Bond, Flint, Steed, and Peel were in one; the UNCLE crew and the Baldwins were in the other.

"How do you propose we enter?" asked Flint, looking at the building.

"Well, there's a plan," said Steed. "Just needs the right man to implement it. Are you up for it?"

"Excuse me, Steed," said Bond, "but I'll be up for it. If Flint doesn't mind, that is."

Flint looked at him. "Why, James?"

Bond cracked a smile. "Perhaps to get back in your good graces, Derek."

"Well, then. Be my guest."

"There are two devices," said Steed. "If you go first, Bond, you have to clear the way."

"Devices?" said Bond. "Has Q been at it again?"

"Actually, I got them from Mother," explained Steed. "But I think Q was in on their design. Gentlemen, if you'll accompany me to the trunk?"

-L-

The Si-Fan guards on the floor near the level where the Master dwelt were ready for an attack, but they were expecting it to come from below. In the direction of the stairwell, or perhaps the elevator. They had been told that they would be gathered with their ancestors to paradise for their service, though they weren't exactly sure what for. The Master would be leaving in a short time, and by sunup, all would be decided. Such was his word.

The problem was that the attack came from just outside a window, over 40 stories above the street.

A submachine gun burst shattered the glass and then the bodies of two of the Si-Fan inside. The rest reacted within seconds, despite their surprise.

The attacker, in some sort of strange suit and protective helmet, pushed in through the broken window, with a jetpack contraption strapped to his back. With one hand, the intruder shut off the jets. With the other, he used his gun.

A crash from the opposite side told the Si-Fan that the invader was not alone. Within a minute, the battle was over.

Amidst the bodies, Flint and Bond shucked their helmets, compressed-air jetpacks, and jumpsuits. Flint smiled. "I've traveled this way before, James. But it never gets old."

Bond flipped open a communicator. "Steed. We're in. Follow suit. Out."

The two of them started up the stairs.

To be continued...   
  
Notes for part 9:  
  
"The light-haired man in the sports jacket entered the men's room of the 707, though the use was unconventional." Jim Phelps, head of the Impossible Missions Force, whose exploits were chronicled in the MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE TV series.  
  
"'Devices?' said Bond. 'Has Q been at it again?'" Q is the armorer of MI6, who personally equips James Bond with his covert and deadly equipment.  
  
"'Actually, I got them from Mother,' explained Steed." Mother is the code name of Steed's superior in THE AVENGERS series.


	10. Chapter 10

The League Extraordinaire 

by DarkMark 

part 10   


"There's nothing I can do?" 

"Absolutely nothing, Matt," said the voice on the other end of the phone. "Go back to writing your Western, or whatever else you were doing. It's in other hands." 

"What other hands?" 

"Not at liberty to say," said the man from ICE. "We estimate the problem will be taken care of within 24 hours. One way, or the other." 

"That gives me plenty of time to get out there." 

"Not enough time to do anything worthwhile. Those are your orders, Matt. We expect you to follow them." 

He paused, breathed, thought of a boxcar load of swear words he wanted to unleash and never would. "Is your intel reliable on this one? Is it pretty much like you told me before?" 

"Even worse, Matt." 

"Then I need to be there," he said. "I need to get my hand in. There has to be something I can do." 

"There is," said his superior. "Just what the rest of us are doing. Sit tight...and wait." 

That was the worst poison a man of action could be forced to swallow. But, unless he intended to tender his resignation, there was little else he could do. He also had to admit that the man on the other end was right. What good could he do, even if he did catch a flight to San Francisco, without knowing where in that city the crisis was, or what its precise nature was? 

All he could do was hope. When Fate had rested heavily upon one man before, and that one man was himself, he had prevailed. He could only hope that these others, whoever they were, could handle it as well. 

"Yes, sir," said Matt Helm, and hung up. 

-L- 

Steed's contingent forced their way in through a third-floor window, breaking it with a rocket and grappling hooks, pitching a gas grenade inside, waiting for it to disperse within thirty seconds, and then quickly scaling the side of the Transamerica building. Solo and Mark Slate went first. As quickly as they ascended, they were still met in the breached office by a pair of Si Fan assassins. Three others were unconscious on the floor. The Asiatics were good. The UNCLE men were better. Within seconds, the Si Fan joined their brethren on the floor. 

"Bring back fond memories, Napoleon?" grinned Slate, positioning himself beside the door. 

"If you mean D-Day, no," said Solo. "Too young for that. Korea. Didn't get to climb a cliff there." 

The others were up within moments: Emma, Illya, April, and Steed. Mike Fat Lee and the Baldwins were waiting in Steed's van, a couple of blocks away. The sextet had little time for pleasantries. Whatever they'd endured in Fu Manchu's other lair they estimated to be just a warmup for this encounter. 

Steed fixed the listening disc of a stethoscope-like device to the wall nearest the hall. The others kept silent. He finally said, "They're outside. More than one." 

Illya nodded, taped a small, potato-shaped object taken from his backpack to the wall, and motioned the others to lay on the floor in the mostly-bare office. In a few cases, that put them uncomfortably near the dead or sleeping Si-Fan. There was nothing more to be done about it. 

The shaped charge went off and blew the wall outward, catching the Si Fan behind it with impact and fragments. The six League members followed as quickly as they dared, blasting at anything that moved, knowing that, from this point, secrecy was dead and the rest was war. 

And war was what they had. 

-L-   


Both Bond and Flint had been equipped with miniature Geiger counters. Bond's was provided by Steed; Flint had one in his cigarette lighter. Thus, each of them knew that the bomb was only two floors above them, on the 45th floor. The problem was, any time they got near the stairwell, a blast of machine gun bullets came from the next floor. The elevator cables had been cut. There would be no heroic Douglas Fairbanks-style climbing of them to the next floor. Fu Manchu would undoubtedly have guards by the elevator doors, anyway. 

"Bit of a problem," muttered Bond, sotto voce, crouching beside Flint. 

"Now we think of a way out," said Flint. "And up." 

"Got any ideas?" 

Flint nodded his head towards the ceiling. "Lift me up. I'll use the lighter to burn a hole up there." 

"Bound to notice it when you do," Bond pointed out. 

"We've got a bomb to defuse, James," said Flint. "Every second we have is one Fu Manchu gives us." 

Bond grunted. "All right, Flint. Ups a daisy." 

He stooped, grabbed Flint's legs about the knees, and lifted him up. Flint could barely reach the ceiling by doing so. The American put both hands to his lighter, did something Bond couldn't quite catch, and made an oxyacetylene flame leap from its top. Quickly, Flint began to describe a rough circle about the ceiling, one which, when cut, would admit one of them at a time. Naturally, it would have to be Flint alone, unless Bond could drag a desk over, stand on it, and jump up there. Bond wondered how a sufficient oxygen supply for it could be fitted into the body of the lighter, and wished he could get the thing, or schematics of it at least, for Q to analyze. 

At that point, he looked out the west window and reacted without thinking to what he saw. 

What he saw was a helicopter drawing near. 

He fell to the floor, dragging Derek Flint with him, an instant before bullets shattered the windows and sliced the air above them. 

Flint, astonished, lay on his back beside Bond, glass shards falling about them. Shielding his eyes with an arm, he said, "Remarkable powers of observation, James." 

"Always someone trying to crash the party," Bond remarked, tightly. He held out his hand. "Give me your lighter." 

"What?" 

"Give me the lighter. Do something that'll let me kill someone with it." 

Wordlessly, Flint touched a finger to its surface. Then he handed it over. "When you're ready to use it, flip the top open and point it where you want it. It'll only be good for eight seconds." 

"Thanks." 

"You should let me do this." 

"I really should." Bond lifted his head, listened well for the interval between the gunfire, saw the helicopter beginning to present its side to the window... 

...and, straightening up, sprang for it. 

The two Si Fan soldiers in the chopper barely had time to register what was happening. Well and good. Bond flung himself through the open window space, over its knives of jagged glass in the frame, out over the forty stories of space between building and helicopter, and snagged the edge of the open door in the chopper with his left hand. 

The Si Fan riding shotgun had time enough to swing his gun in Bond's direction. 

Bond, with one hand and one foot in the doorway, brought up his other hand. 

It held Flint's lighter, and he flipped it open. 

A streak of red, not even as wide as a pencil, leapt from the top of it, intersected the Si Fan's skull at the level of his eyes, and penetrated it. Blood spurted. The wound was cauterized on the spot, but the motion of Bond's hand took it well into the Si Fan's skull before he fell. 

The motion of his falling took a good chunk of the man's head with it, as the red ray continued to do its job. 

The other Si Fan, the one driving the helicopter, gaped in astonishment and nausea. Bond had to perform the small mental trick of putting aside what he had just seen and concentrate on what had to be done next. Or, rather, not to concentrate, simply to do. He only had two seconds of power left in the thing. 

With those seconds, he used the ray from Flint's lighter to cut into the pilot's chest. The man had time to cry out, and that was about it. Acrid, sickening-smelling smoke emerged from the hole Bond had made in him. 

His dead hands began to drag backwards on the controls. 

The craft began to lurch crazily upward. Bond thrust himself forward, leaning towards the control panel as the axis of gravity within changed. The first man he had killed slid backwards and toward the open door. The pilot was strapped in. Bond grabbed for the control yoke, sat down in the dead man's lap, mentally swore at the smell, and, within seconds, brought the damned thing back under control again. 

Idly, he noticed that the machine was just a commercially-available helicopter, modified for deadly use by its buyers. Obviously bought in America. But it had to have been a long time since the FAA inspected this one. 

Bond had flown helicopters before. He cut the rotor engine enough to drop the craft back to the level of the Pyramid which Flint occupied. This thing had to be done quickly, now. There'd be no way of preserving secrecy with this blasted eggbeater in the mix. 

He held it as steady as possible outside the broken window of the Pyramid. "Flint," he called out. "Boarding." 

The Yank was off the floor and into the helicopter faster even than Bond had managed. He took in the sight of the two corpses, grimly. Bond handed him back the lighter. "Thanks," he told Flint. "What was that, really?" 

"Laser," said Flint. "Unparalleled for cutting. Inefficient with power, though. I won't be able to use much in the lighter for a bit, I'm afraid." 

"Bugger that," said Bond, and brought the chopper up a floor. He pointed the front of the machine at the windows before him and triggered the machine gun. The windows before it burst as had the ones a floor below. If there was anything made of meat in the path of the bullets, they weren't worth worrying about now. Bond brought the helicopter as near to the windows as he could manage. 

"There'd better be an autopilot on this thing," said Bond. 

"There is," said Flint, as he reached over and activated it. "We're going to have to finish this before this runs out of fuel." 

"Just a moment," said Bond. He reached inside his vest for a handset and thumbed it on. "Baldwin. Are you there?" 

The voice of Ward Baldwin came back to him. "Acknowledging, Mr. Bond." 

"You and Lee have to contact the police," said Bond. "We're having to exit a chopper up here. Autopilot. If we don't get back to it in time, it'll crash. Keep spectators out of the area. Period. Out." 

"Received, Mr. Bond," replied Baldwin. "Out." 

Bond cut off the switch on the handset. UNCLE had been notified, of course, and both it and the FBI were on alert, probably in the area. So, he assumed, was the AEC. Of course, if he and Flint didn't finish the job within the next hour or so, they'd have a lot more to concern them than a falling helicopter. 

Flint was gathering himself at the door of the helicopter. "Mind the glass, Flint," Bond barked after him. He needn't have worried. The American flipped through the air like the most finely trained of trapeze artists, made himself into a ball, shot through the jagged window space, and unfolded himself inside to land on both feet. After sweeping the room with his gaze and seeing little of anything besides normal office space, Flint turned back, pulled out his gun, and smashed away at the glass shards still embedded in the bottom and sides of the window. Then he waved to Bond. 

With a bit of disgust and even more of effort, Bond raised himself from the lap of the dead pilot, stepped across the corpse of said pilot's partner, and leapt across the gap between. Flint's hand was poised to grasp his wrist, which he did. Flint fell backwards into the room, dragging Bond with him. Both ended up on the floor, thankful not to be cut by the glass shards lying flat below them. 

"Got a directional yet?" asked Bond. 

"No, power's drained," said Flint. "Can you use yours?" 

Bond took the pocket Geiger counter from his pack and listened to its muted ticking. The signals came most strongly from the direction facing the hall without. He nodded his head in that direction. Flint nodded up and down, sharply, and both of them proceeded to the door. With Flint standing against the wall near the jamb, Bond kicked the door open and went out, gun leveled. 

Three figures in dark coats and hats, situated at the farthest end of the hall from them, started forward. Bond opened fire on them, almost point-blank. He shot them in the chest area and in the faces. 

He could tell from the noises the bullets made that they were spanging off. Ricocheting. 

The men in the coats and hats were still coming on. He'd knocked the hat off one of them. The pate below it seemed to gleam in what moonlight was available. All three of the buggers were swinging their arms, mechanically. 

Flint, who appeared by his side, gun in hand, was astonished. Bond turned to him. "Armored," he snapped. 

"No," said Flint, in wonder. "Machines." 

"What? These things can't be robots!" 

"Worse," said Flint. "They're what Emma was telling us about. They're Cybernauts." 

To be continued... 

Notes for part 10: 

"There's nothing I can do?" The speaker is Matt Helm, top agent of ICE, whose adventures have been chronicled in a series of novels by Donald Hamilton, beginning with DEATH OF A CITIZEN.   



	11. Chapter 11

The League Extraordinaire  
  
part 11  
  
by DarkMark  
  
As many things that Bond had fought against in his lifetime, he had never faced robots. Now, he was facing three of them.   
  
He felt a twinge of atavistic fear, looking on the three humanoids miming men with their hats and overcoats, their arms swinging like deadly cleavers in karate-like motion. But he disregarded it just as quickly. Like all problems, this one simply was wanting for a solution.  
  
The only thing was that there were only seconds before the Cybernauts reached him and Flint, and he didn't have a solution just now.  
  
Flint made a motion that drew Bond's attention for a second. The American drew back his arm like a baseball pitcher, then threw the object he had in his hand. From the subdued glint of what light was available on its metal surface, Bond didn't have to wonder what it was. Flint hit the floor and dragged Bond down with him.  
  
Flint's cigarette lighter struck the leftmost of the Cybernaut trio and exploded.  
  
The blast took out the head and a good part of the upper torso of the robot that had been struck, and incapacitated the middle of the three robots. The middleman fell upon its fallen mate, hit it a few strokes which dented its surface and tore at its exposed circuitry guts, took a blow from its flailing left arm, and was still.   
  
"That's the last trick I have up my sleeve, Bond," rapped Flint. "You'd better have one of your own."  
  
Bond weighed his options, sprang up, faced the final Cybernaut lumbering towards them, and unbuckled his belt. Flint started to get up. Bond pushed him down with a foot on his shoulder. "Stay there!"  
  
Silently, Flint obeyed, but he watched the scenario.  
  
The belt was in Bond's right hand, held by the leather end. He danced in towards the Cybernaut, taking good note of its scythe-like arms. "Toro! Hah! Toro!" he yelled, and snapped the belt buckle at the robot's face. It glanced off without so much as striking a spark. But the robot did reach up for the belt, and failed to snag it.  
  
James Bond stepped quickly across the room, striking the Cybernaut with his belt buckle, yelling at it. The robot turned in his direction. Its motions were humanlike, but failed to flow as neatly as those of a true human. Point, Bond thought, for the home team, and likely the only one he'd get.  
  
Excepting the fact that the robot was probably far dumber than a human being, as well.  
  
Bond backed towards the window, still shouting at his metallic foe. The Cybernaut missed a sideways blow and smashed in part of the wall with its deadly hand. The hands themselves, Bond noted, seemed to be cast with fingers frozen together in the chopping mode. The robot did have an opposable thumb, and there might have been a hint of joints in the hands themselves. Whether or not it could pick something up, he had no idea. But they hadn't been designed for that, after all.  
  
Emma Peel intimated that the things were designed only for killing, and he believed her.  
  
The helicopter was still whup-whup-whupping not far from the window. That, at least, Bond could be thankful for. The robot was still coming on, and it had picked up the pace. It stepped past the part of the floor Flint was holding onto, without stopping. Another point on the side of the angels. Now, to see if this thing was as dumb as he hoped.  
  
Bond stood in the windowspace he and Flint had opened up. He was facing the Cybernaut, who wasn't chopping anymore. Instead, it was holding out both its metal hands, seeking to grasp. He had no doubt as to what it would do to any object thus grasped. "James," warned Flint, beginning to get up from the floor.  
  
The British agent yelled and whipped the robot with his belt again. It came for him.  
  
Bond turned, gauged the distance again, and leapt for the helicopter.   
  
He had time enough to complain internally that this was getting to be too much of a habit as his hands grasped the bottom of the cockpit doorway. Bond took time for a breath before swinging himself up into the cockpit, barely noting the two Si Fan bodies therein.  
  
An instant later, the helicopter lurched.  
  
Bond looked out and down.  
  
A pair of metallic hands were grasping one of the landing gear.  
  
Time for improvisation.  
  
With an air of deliberation, Bond jammed the lift control on the machine and sprang out from the door towards the broken window, again. The hand of the Cybernaut reached up, and almost caught his left foot.  
  
Almost.  
  
Flint was in the window, yelling something. Bond reached out with both hands, trying to accomplish the death-defying spring again, but one objective condition had changed. In jamming the controls so that the helicopter was sent downward, his calculations were thrown off, despite his trying to compensate for them.   
  
He suddenly realized that, as he neared the window, he was beginning to dip.  
  
Flint was reaching out, reaching further, reaching...any further and the man himself would tumble out of the window. Bond brought up his right hand...  
  
...and his right arm was almost jerked out of its socket.  
  
Bond smacked the front of his body against the division between floors and the window below, shattering part of it with his legs. He swore. But, somehow, he did not let go.  
  
He had forgotten that he was still holding the end of his belt. Derek Flint was holding the other end.  
  
"James," grated Flint, "has M ever spoken to you about your weight?"  
  
Rallying, Bond extricated both legs from the window below, got his elbow up on the division, and did what he could to help Flint haul him up. "In your honor, Flint, I'll begin a diet as soon as I get back to the flat."  
  
"You—"  
  
There was a tremendous blast from below.  
  
Afterward, Bond couldn't testify either that his rapid entry into the office room was from his own reflexes or Flint's surge of adrenaline. All he knew was that both of them were back in the office space again, taking cover as a few bits of glass and metal popped in from the helicopter crash many stories below.  
  
A few seconds later, Flint remarked, "Solves one problem, anyway."  
  
"Two," responded Bond. "You're forgetting the robot."  
  
"Good idea. Let's both forget the robot. We have a bomb on the premises. Remember?"  
  
"Noted, Flint." He looked at the belt, still in his hand, and dropped it to the floor. Then he drew his gun from its shoulder holster. "Sorry about your weapon."  
  
"I'll make another one once this is done," said Flint. He already had his own gun out. A nod towards the door, and both of them went for it.  
  
-L-  
  
Down below, the UNCLE quartet and the two British agents had their work cut out for them. More specifically, their work was trying to cut them out.   
  
Phansigars, Dacoits, possible Hashashin, and regular agents, all of them armed, all of them deadly. They struck with knives, with throwing weapons, with the deadly nooses and nunchucks, even, in one case, with sprayed acid that ate away at the fabric of Steed's umbrella. But mostly they struck with guns.  
  
They'd played the scene before recently, but these troops were new, and the sextet of spies had been in battle after battle. Never a good idea to send worn troops against fresh troops, especially troops that outnumbered you.  
  
Still, the members of the League were, Steed reckoned, each worth at least a half-dozen Si-Fan. Better yet, he'd been able to come up with weaponry and defensive devices that helped even the odds more. Each one of the League had a hand-held, collapsible, transparent plastic shield, an improvement over the ones riot cops were using, and they were proof against bullet strikes...up to a point. Hit them hard enough, repeatedly, and the things would fracture and shatter. Several of their shields were showing signs of that, now.  
  
Emma Peel was taking out her share of the enemy. Steed knew she was a crack shot with the pistol, but she used martial arts so often in her work that he'd almost forgotten how good she was with it. Solo and Illya had fixed rifle-like extensions to the UNCLE specials and were mowing down whatever had the bad sense to infiltrate their cross-hairs. Mark Slate, though less impressive than the others, was killing his share.  
  
Miss Dancer was going at it with less enthusiasm, more reluctance coupled with determination to get the thing over and done with. He could tell she didn't like what she was having to do. Luckily, she was going ahead and doing it.  
  
He reflected that Mrs. Peel wouldn't like his observation, but most women, in his opinion, weren't suited for things like that, and April Dancer was a lot more like most women. Emma wasn't.  
  
However, there was something tingling at the back of his mind. Steed recalled what Mike Fat Lee had told him, that there was only so much you could hide in Chinatown without the edges sticking out. The League had already killed a significant amount of Fu Manchu's men. Even supposing he had sleeper agents in place before he came, Fu Manchu would only have a finite amount of operatives he could place here on short notice. This place wasn't Limehouse, after all, nor was he the local branch of THRUSH.  
  
Things clicked together.  
  
"All of you," Steed barked. "Get to the doors. Get outside. Fight your way back. Now!"  
  
Mark Slate looked at Steed, questioningly, but didn't say a word. Luckily, all of them were within earshot, and the sounds of gunfire in the cordite-scented lobby hadn't drowned him out. Quickly, Solo, April, Slate, Illya, and Emma began to obey. There were a few Si-Fan behind them, but not many. In a few seconds, that number dropped to zero.  
  
Fu Manchu's troops began to surge forward from the direction of the stairway.   
  
They weren't quick enough to avoid the burst of gas that came forth, surprising them all.  
  
"Move!" shouted Steed. He didn't have to urge them hard. The sextet was out of the Pyramid's glass doors and slamming them shut as they left. Shots from Si-Fan guns knocked holes in the portals. The League members kept running until Steed gauged they were at a safe distance, less than a hundred yards from the door. They noticed that the cops had blocked off streets for blocks around them, and noticed even more urgently the sight of the crashed and burning helicopter not far distant.  
  
They also noticed that the several Si-Fan who had gotten through the door had stumbled only a short distance, and collapsed. Dead.  
  
"Very...lethal," said Napoleon Solo, breaking the silence.   
  
"Definitely," said Mark Slate. "No way we can get back in there now. At least, not on that floor."  
  
"All of them, dead," said April, almost hollowly. "He sacrificed all his men to try and get us."  
  
"If Steed hadn't noticed it when he did, he would have gotten us," offered Illya Kuryakin. to your powers of observation, sir."  
  
Steed looked at the Russian, soberly. "No observation, Mr. Kuryakin. Simply deduction. It would be much easier a course to lead us into a death trap, even if Fu Manchu had to kill his own agents to manage it."  
  
"Which he did," said Emma, tersely.  
  
"A finite amount of men, which we were cutting down steadily," said Steed, "a limited amount of time...it all pointed in one direction. A gas bomb."  
  
"Nerve gas?" asked Slate. "Phosgene?"  
  
Emma said, "If you wish to get a sample for analysis, Mr. Slate, no one here will stop you."  
  
"Easy, Emma," said Solo. He reached in his vest, pulled out his pen, and adjuted its hidden antenna. "Open Channel D," he said.  
  
Mark Slate went a few yards away with April. Illya gravitated towards Steed. "Napoleon's calling in our units," he said.  
  
"I know, Mr. Kuryakin," said Steed. His eyes were trained on the building level many stories above, the one with a hole in it.  
  
"So Fu Manchu triggered that by remote control, or with a timer," Illya continued. "That indicates we haven't that much time."  
  
"We never did."  
  
Illya didn't have to tell Steed the obvious. The UNCLE troops, the special units from the American government, the NEST team, they'd have a way of getting into the building above the lobby level, where the gas was. But it was doubtful they'd be in time to affect the outcome. He joined Steed in looking up.  
  
"It's in their hands, now," he said.  
  
"The best two pair of hands we have to offer, Mr. Kuryakin," pronounced Steed. "The best hands in the League, and perhaps in the Free World as well."  
  
Both of them looked up at the hole in the Pyramid, and waited.  
  
-L-  
  
There could be any number of things waiting behind the door, or attached to it. Not the least of which, of course, was a bomb. Then again, they already knew there was a bomb within. That tended to trump any hesitations they had.  
  
Bond and Flint had both reloaded their guns from the ammo in their backpacks. Steed had, thankfully, been liberal with the amount of bullets he'd supplied them with. Anyone in their kind of field operations would know that men in their position couldn't ever afford to pull the triggers of their guns and just hear a miserable click.  
  
Flint sent a bullet through the door. No explosion, no whiff of gas (though, of course, there were lethal, odorless gases), no return fire. So far, heartening. Bond himself backed off, ran at the door, and smashed it off its lock with a powerful kick. His foot hurt. He was prepared to disregard that.  
  
There were five black-clad figures inside, Si-Fan by the look of them, and a large device beyond them. The room beyond was not that large. The Si-Fan opened fire. Bond and Flint, reflexively, had already moved away from the door, to opposite sides. Each of them hit the floor. Then, almost simultaneously, they edged towards the doorway, stuck their guns through and enough of their heads for them to see, and shot back.  
  
The men within were grey-skinned, an unnatural hue which Bond had never seen on a living person and couldn't recall quite seeing on a corpse. His and Flint's shots went true, penetrating the chest of one man and the head of another.  
  
Both kept firing. So did the other three.  
  
Bond and Flint withdrew. The Englishman noted that Flint's eyes were wide, his expression grim. No wisecracks this time.   
  
"What the hell are they?" asked Bond, almost without volition. They'd played this scene before, when they were facing the Cybernauts. He expected that Flint would have the answer, and he wasn't disappointed.  
  
"I've heard of them," said Flint. "Read up on Fu Manchu in the files, that night before we were bombed. I know what they are. He's used them once before. Those are Cold Men."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Zombies!"  
  
To be continued...  
  
Notes for part 11:  
  
"Those are Cold Men." Zombies, reanimated scientifically by Fu Manchu. They appeared in Sax Rohmer's EMPEROR FU MANCHU.  
  



	12. Chapter 12

The League Extraordinaire:  
  
Part 12  
  
by DarkMark  
  
This time Bond didn't even allow himself the luxury of feeling scared. It was time for action. That was the best known antidote for fear.  
  
He crouched and went at them, yelling in the fashion of a commando going into battle. Then he dropped flat on his stomach, evading the bullets of the Cold Men. But his gun was out, and he gave them back what he could.  
  
The bullets struck the chests or heads of the Si Fan zombies, gouging out flesh and bone, spattering something that was possibly a substitute for blood. Nonetheless, the things kept on firing. With parts of their very skulls out, they kept firing.  
  
"Bond!" Flint was up now, using his own gun on the monsters. "Aim for their heads! Knock those off, and they can't see to aim!"  
  
He punctuated that with a shot that decapitated one of the five Cold Men from the nose up.  
  
Smart thinking, Bond decided. Rolling, leaping, evading, he targeted his shots on the heads of the Cold Men. They were moving forward, and the zombie whose head had been recently subtracted was still firing, like the Amoks of wartime. But the latter couldn't hit anything. Small blessing, but they'd take anything they could get at this point.  
  
The heads of two more zombies exploded. They kept firing, aimlessly, at the places towards which their guns had been pointed. For an instant, Bond's mind froze-–My God!, he thought, I'm fighting the living dead!–-but he put it aside just as quickly and kept the barrage up.  
  
One of the remaining two Cold Men grabbed something from behind him, popped a handle off, and threw it. Grenade. There was no way Bond could evade it. Even as he fired upon the hurler, Bond took notice that the beggar was wearing gloves. It was amazing what details you could take in, during your last few seconds of life.  
  
And then, an instant after the grenade's flight had reached its apogee, two hands intervened, cupped to catch the thing. The body behind the hands was still in flight from an heroic leap. Braving the bullets of the last two defenders, Derek Flint snagged the grenade on the fly, pitched it away before touching the floor, and rolled to cover even as Bond hit the deck again.  
  
The grenade, pitched towards the hole in the front windows, blew up and weakened the structure even more. Shrapnel spanged against the remains of office furniture. Bond lurched towards a place of better cover. The two beggars were still firing upon them.  
  
Grimly, he took aim, and deprived each one of its head.  
  
The idiots were still firing, like their brethren. In savage fashion, Bond got behind each of the five and kicked them down. They sprawled, limply. Like Amoks, once you had them down, they seemed to realize they were dead.  
  
Bond stood, breathing hard, among the smell of blood and cordite and heard a grunt of pain.  
  
Flint.  
  
In a second, he was at his friend's side. Flint was grimacing, lying on the floor, holding his hands out, palms up. Both of them were showing terrible burns.  
  
Bond swore. "Flint, what—"  
  
"Acid!" Flint bit off the word. Bond marveled. He had a high enough tolerance of pain himself to gauge and appreciate it in others.  
  
Bond grasped him under the arms and hauled him up. "There's bound to be a loo on this level. We'll get your hands under a sink."  
  
"There isn't time!" Flint, still holding his hands apart, nodded in the direction from which the Cold Men had come. "Go."  
  
"Both of us," said Bond. He began to help his friend forward in a fireman's carry.  
  
Flint said, "Just a minute," and Bond paused. The body of one of the fallen Cold Men was very near. Flint crouched, almost collapsed, really, and wiped his hands on the zombie's shirt. He cried out, briefly, in pain. Bond helped him back up.  
  
"Did that help?" he asked.  
  
"Not much," grated Flint. The two of them moved quickly forward.  
  
The bomb was in front of them.  
  
In size, it was not that impressive. Just a rectangular box, hardly bigger than a breadbox. There wasn't even the sound of a ticking mechanism within. None, thought Bond, of the movie stereotypes about a bomb. Which, of course, made the thing that much more unnerving.  
  
Within the box was an unquantified mass of cobalt-60. God only knew what the explosion would be like if the thing went off, but the problem, Bond knew, wasn't the explosion itself. It was the fallout. The damned thing was dirtier by far than a U-235 bomb, more, probably, than plutonium, and the stuff would spread over a much larger area. Well over half the people of the United States would sicken and die within weeks. The only consolation he and Flint had was that neither of them would have to worry about that if it blew.   
  
It was bolted to a stone stand which was riveted into the floor. Bond doubted that either of them could move the stand, which meant that the bomb had to be moved, somehow. "Flint," he said. "Back against the wall."  
  
He drew his gun and fired at the casing, three times. The shots ricocheted off.  
  
"Damn!" Bond smashed at it with his gun butt, kicked at it with the heel of his shoe. No results, outside of some small dents where the bullets had spanged off. If Flint's lighter was available, they'd have been able to take it apart with the laser he packed in it. But the lighter was deader than the Cold Men, now.  
  
"Bond..."  
  
Flint had spoken, strainedly. Bond whirled to see what he was doing. Despite the pain in his hands, he was struggling to lift a barely-moving Cybernaut and drag it in the bomb's direction. "Give me a hand, will you?"  
  
Bond rushed to Flint's side and took the Cybernaut away from him. Mostly, it was a bit of head, arm, and torso, its wiring and inner mechanisms dragging out like guts from below. The left arm was chopping, slowly, with impaired movements. Nonetheless, Bond made sure to keep that part of the robot away from him. He grunted as he manhandled the robot towards the bomb. "You think we can smash it open with this?"   
  
Flint didn't respond. "Flint?"  
  
Bond looked back. Flint had his elbow wrapped about the head of one of the other Cybernauts, one which was mostly sans body. His face was still white and sweating. With a great effort, Flint wrenched the head of the robot from the neck mechanism. He collapsed on his knees, but still held the Cybernaut's head in his arm.  
  
"My God, Flint!"  
  
"James," said the American, "just get the damn thing over there. We're going to have to hook this head into that body."  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's called cannibalizing. You're going to have to do it for me. We need the power of this head for that body. Otherwise, it'll never be able to crack the bomb casing."  
  
"I don't know a thing about that."  
  
"I'll tell you. What to do. Just do it!"  
  
Bond leaned the robot torso against the stone stand at an angle in which its chopping arm was only slashing air. Wordlessly, he went back to Flint, took the metal head away from him, and helped him back to his feet. Then he fireman-carried Flint over to the bomb. Finally he said, "Tell me, Flint. This had better be a great deal simpler than Popular Mechanics."  
  
"I'm going to lie on my hands and knees. Put the robot on my back."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Put it on my back so that its arm will be chopping at the bomb. I'll give you instructions on. Hooking up the new head. Do it, James, my hands are still hurt."  
  
"I'm sorry, Flint," said Bond, knowing how inadequate it sounded. Nonetheless, Flint crouched at the base of the stand, supporting his weight on his elbows and knees, holding his hands palms upward. Carefully, Bond lifted the metal torso up, leaned it against the stand, and contacted Flint's back with it as gingerly as he could. "Can you hold up, man?"  
  
"I'll manage," said Flint. "Get that other head in hand. What we want is a thick yellow wire, and a violet one. On both the torso and head. Got it?"  
  
"Understood," said Bond. The remains of the Cybernaut torso's head were in the way. Bond grasped it by the remains of the chin and wrenched. Thankfully, it came off, but the robot's arm chopped with even less authority. "What now?"  
  
"Find the wires, strip the ends on both of them, and connect the new head and torso." Flint gasped. "Quickly."  
  
Bond pulled a small folding knife from his pants pocket and opened it. Such a mass of wiring inside the Cybernaut's opened neck... He reached in, pulled a handful of wires up, and noted one was yellow and another was violet indeed. It was only the work of seconds to strip the plastic sheathing from an inch or two of both wires. But there couldn't be many more seconds left, if the two hour deadline Fu Manchu had written of was to be believed.  
  
"James," gasped Flint.  
  
"I'll get the thing off your back, Derek," said Bond.  
  
"No time. Just...hurry."  
  
Swearing softly, Bond turned to the robot's head. He reached into the jagged-edged opening of its neck, pulled out wiring until he came to the correctly-colored ones, and did a stripping of the appropriate two of them. Then he grasped the yellow-sheathed wires from torso and head and twisted them together.   
  
The thing's arm wasn't chopping any better. He didn't expect it to. But it would have been nice.  
  
The violet ones remained. He put them together, saw them spark and mildly shock him like the completed circuit of a jumped car battery. Bond clenched his teeth, ignored the pain, and braided the second pair together. The circuit was complete.  
  
A noise, of metal striking stone and chipping it.  
  
Bond looked at the half-Cybernaut. Its arm was coming up like the backswing of an executioner's axe.  
  
"Get it in position," said Flint. "It'll only last for a few seconds."  
  
Grasping the robot under its metal armpits, Bond lifted it up, shifted its position, and angled it so that the hand, pointed and stiff in a karate fashion, came down on the bomb casing. The noise of its impact echoed through the entire chamber.  
  
The casing dented.  
  
Bond held the robot off of Flint's back now, straining a bit to keep it in position. The metal hand smashed at the bomb casing anew. Was there a crack in it? There had to be. The Cybernaut's hand came down again, and again, and again.  
  
It was losing power. Bond swore.  
  
"Is it..." Flint started.  
  
"No!" Bond saw the hand come up again, then crash down upon the box with the bomb inside. There was, indeed, a crack in it. But the robot's arm was growing too feeble.  
  
With a shout of something unintelligible but deeply felt, Bond lifted the Cybernaut's torso as high as he could, and then smashed it down upon the bomb.  
  
The robot's body rebounded, slightly, rolled off, and fell onto the other side with a bang. Bond, sweating, looked at its handiwork.  
  
A hole had been torn in the casing. Not very big, perhaps only enough to poke the muzzle of a gun through. There were explosives within. They had to be detonated in just the precise pattern, to ensure that the fissionable material would be compressed just so, and be forced to expand in reaction, causing the grand explosion that was its inventor's intention of design.  
  
"Two minutes," said Flint. "What?"  
  
Bond had him by the underarms and was dragging him away.  
  
"James, what are you doing?"  
  
Bond dragged Flint into the next room and lay him down on the floor. "Don't get up, Flint," he said, and strode quickly back to the bomb.  
  
"James!"  
  
Bond pressed the muzzle of his gun to the hole in the bomb casing, crouched below its level with the stone stand shielding him as much as possible, and drew a breath.  
  
"See you on the other side, Derek," he said, and pulled the trigger.  
  
-L-  
  
Explosion.  
  
Another burst of flame, gas, and sound from the hole already torn in the building's side. The men of the League Extraordinaire, and the emergency personnel near them, looked up in horror.  
  
"Great God!" Mark Slate was pointing upward, involuntarily. "It's gone off! They didn't...they..."  
  
"Slate!" Steed whirled on him, viciously, and grabbed him by the shirtfront. "Shut up! Don't you see? Don't you use your eyes for anything, man? Tell me what you see!"  
  
Mrs. Peel said, "Steed, for Heaven's sake, Flint and Bond have been..."  
  
"They've been killed." Napoleon Solo said it. "But the bomb..."  
  
Illya was the first to say it. "That wasn't a big enough blast. They disrupted the detonation. It was...they..."  
  
April Dancer drew in a breath, then spoke. "They succeeded. And they died."  
  
There was a long period of silence. Steed was the one who finally broke it.  
  
"My dear," he said, "where Flint and Bond are concerned...never take anything at face value."  
  
-L-  
  
The NEST team were the first into the building, helped along by a helicopter of their own (actually, the U.S. Army's), which got them to the ruptured part of the building and inside it. They sprayed it with fire- and radiation-retardant materials. They cleared the floor of the bodies which were dead, and those which were not.  
  
As things went, there was very little contamination. The casing had torn open when Bond set off the explosive elements in the bomb, but, thanks to his work, most of it kept its integrity. Flint had to be restrained by the men in the suits from going after Bond.   
  
For his part, Bond lay on the floor beside the stand and the remains of the bomb, and did not get up.  
  
Flint and Bond were both rushed to a hospital under the auspices of UNCLE. The American's exposure to radioactive materials was negligible, miraculously enough. Bond wasn't so lucky. He'd taken a massive hit from the cobalt-60. The blast had done him some damage, but that, he would have been able to recover from, in time. The radiation poisoning was another matter.  
  
Bond was mostly kept under sedation as the specialists worked on him. Marrow transplants were considered, among other things. But it was generally agreed that such measures were too little, too late. In the end, they gave Bond about a week.  
  
Miles Messervy caught a plane to San Francisco to see his agent, or what was left of him. He was surprised to see Steed, Peel, and all the rest maintaining vigil in the waiting room of the hospital. "Well," he said, for lack of any better opening, "it's heartening to see you here. Even though they must be pressing you with assignments."  
  
Emma Peel looked at M evenly. "Mr. Bond is one of our own, sir," she said. "For the rest of the week, we will recognize no assignments."  
  
-L-  
  
In the early hours of the morning, Bond awoke.  
  
What in the name of Heaven was transpiring now? Bond hoped that his metaphor was accurate. He'd paid enough of an admission ticket, he felt, to keep him out of the afterlife's nether regions. But the room around him was dark, save for the luminous light of the call-box behind him. There were shapes, at least two of them, and they were vaguely human.  
  
He could barely move. But at least he could hear.  
  
"Are you conscious, Mr. Bond?"  
  
The voice was familiar. Bond strove to focus his eyes, tried to move his mouth, his tongue, tried to form words. The effort was only vaguely successful. He tried to arise from the bed, but something, or someone, held him back.  
  
"You can hear me, Mr. Bond," said the voice. The speaker was still in the shadows. "My masterstroke has, again, been turned away. Congratulations. Your action, though damnable, was valiant. Now, you lie here, dying by the minutes, by the seconds. It would be the simplest thing of all to let you do so. I cannot deny it would be somewhat pleasing to me.  
  
"But. Let it never be said that I do not reward valor. Whether displayed by my allies...or my enemies."  
  
Bond tried to lurch up from his bed. The man (and, he saw, it was a man, an Asiatic at that) held him down with one arm. With the other, the man grasped his head and yanked it back, opening Bond's mouth by force.  
  
The other intruder came forward, a tube glinting in his hand. It was uncorked. Before Bond could manage to get his mouth shut, the strange-tasting liquid in the tube was emptied down his throat.  
  
The man restraining Bond shoved his jaw into place and kept it there while Bond, involuntarily, swallowed. A few moments later, the other one displayed another instrument in his hand: a hypodermic needle.  
  
"Should our paths cross again, Mr. Bond, do not expect a similar mercy," said the man with the needle.  
  
There was a sharp prick in the inside of Bond's elbow. Within seconds, he was asleep again.   
  
Bond didn't see the man's face. Then again, he didn't need to.  
  
-L-  
  
"Mr. Bond? Mr. Bond, wake up. It's time you got back with the living."  
  
Actually, Bond was impressed with the speed with which his eyes opened. The surroundings were fairly familiar. One hospital room looks very like another, and he'd seen his share of them. The doctor and nurse by his bed were unfamiliar, but that was all right. What was gratifying was the fact that he was apparently alive enough to see them.  
  
He also felt more well than he'd have imagined.   
  
"Nice to know I'm still in their number," said Bond, and pushed away a number of sleep seeds from his eyes. "What happened? Bomb wasn't efficient enough to let me die?"  
  
The doctor, a 40ish man with brown hair and a mustache, wearing a green outfit, consulted his clipboard. "Oh, it was efficient, all right. Radiation poisoning, burns, trauma. By all the normal odds, well..." The man looked up. "We expected, really, to lose you two days ago."  
  
"Why didn't you?" Bond fixed the doctor with an even expression. The nurse said nothing.  
  
"We don't know," said the doctor. "The radiation damage has all but totally withdrawn. Your system seems to be recovering, purging itself. For the most part, all we're doing is standing back and letting it work."  
  
Bond was silent.  
  
"What happened to you in there?" asked the doctor. "If we could discover what's causing you to do this, we might be able to save cancer patients, burn victims, and, yes, radiation cases. Mr. Bond, do you have any idea why your body is acting the way it is?"  
  
"Doctor," said Bond, carefully, "perhaps my body has decided that I'm still on assignment."  
  
-L-  
  
Minutes after the doctor and nurse had left, the door to Bond's room opened again. Derek Flint, in bathrobe and slippers, was in the lead, smiling. His hands were bandaged, but he seemed intact otherwise. "James," he said, holding out a hand. "We can't shake hands. But it's good to see you back."  
  
Bond sat up in bed. "You, too, Derek. Glad our friends managed to stay for the weekend." Behind Flint was the entire complement: Steed, Emma, Napoleon, Illya, Slate, and April. Thankfully, all of them seemed to be in better shape than he and Flint.  
  
Steed, still clutching his umbrella in one hand, held out his other to Bond. "James," he said, "well done."  
  
Bond shook Steed's hand.  
  
"I'll add my second to that sentiment, James," said Napoleon, shaking Bond's hand next. "It's good to know that we're not the only ones who can pull off a last desperate chance around here, after all."  
  
Illya Kuryakin said, "But none of us should wish to pull it off that closely again. Well done, Mr. Bond."  
  
"Thanks, Kuryakin." Bond pumped the Russian's hand as well.  
  
April Dancer was next in line. "It's been intriguing working with you, Mr. Bond," she said. "But if we ever have to do it again, I hope we won't do it in quite the same way."  
  
Bond smiled and took her hand, briefly. Mark Slate was next. "Good to know we Brits still have a few tricks to show the Yanks," he said, taking Bond's hand in a surprisingly firm grip. "Very decent job, Mr. Bond."  
  
"Thanks, Slate," said Bond. He moved on. That left only one in line.  
  
Emma Peel stood at the foot of Bond's bed. She studied him, silently, for a long moment. Then she said, "To quote Steed, Mr. Bond—well done."  
  
Bond raised his eyebrows a tad, and, after a pause, said, "From you, Emma...quite a tribute. Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome," she said, and stepped back.  
  
Well. Perhaps some rewards were to be withheld from the victor, after all. But, after all, he reminded himself, Emma Peel was not like the brass ring on a merry-go-round. She would probably be forever out of reach. He looked at Steed, who had pulled up a chair and was sitting in it, but whatever connection he and Emma had would probably remain confidential forever. Just as well, he supposed.  
  
"We think we've figured out what happened to you, James," said Steed. "Though, of course, we're not quite sure how."  
  
"Evidently, some of the Si Fan penetrated our security," said Flint, casually. "For once, that was a good thing. James, you were apparently dosed with the Elixir Vitae."  
  
"What?"  
  
"The Elixir of Life," said Kuryakin. "The serum which the alchemists strove for in the Middle Ages. It prolongs life, which is why Fu Manchu has been able to thrive as long as he has. That much, we've learned from Nayland Smith's reports. Mr. Bond, it's apparently in your blood."  
  
"Of course, we...doubt that we'll be able to analyze it from bloodwork," said Solo. "Otherwise, the medical types probably would already be running up and down the halls yelling, 'Eureka!' But it's enabling your body to throw off that cobalt poisoning."  
  
"I daresay it'll retard your aging processes as well," said Slate. "Enough to make a man jealous. You have more than a few good years ahead of you, Mr. Bond."  
  
It was only through sheer strength of will that Bond kept his jaw from dropping open. "Do you mean to tell me...that Fu Manchu's bloody made me immortal?"  
  
"No, James," said Flint. "Hardly that. Even Fu Manchu has to take periodic doses of it, from what we've heard. But the dosage you've got should keep you fit and vital for some years to come. At retirement age, you'll still look about the same as you do now."  
  
"Retirement," Bond repeated. "What you're telling me is that I'm going to be this young for many years to come?"  
  
Steed nodded. "Yes, James. Without even having to hang a picture on the wall and let it age for you. The way I feel, it's almost enough to make me wish I'd been in there, not you." He smiled. "But not quite."  
  
"That's...nice to know, I suppose," said Bond. His mind wouldn't fully wrap around the concept, yet. If the doctors were accurate, he hadn't been expected to live out a week. Now, he might well outlive all the other people in this room.   
  
To what purpose?  
  
He shrugged. Hell, what purpose was there ever? A man gave his own life purpose. He'd deal with it as he dealt with everything else, in its own good time. Apparently, he had more than a usual supply of that left.  
  
"What of the bomb?" asked Bond. "He made one, he can make another."  
  
"He could," agreed Flint. "But I don't think he will. Let's consider: Fu Manchu is said to have developed the atomic bomb and, apparently, the laser years before anyone in the West succeeded in doing that. But he failed both times he tried to use them. He never tried them again. My guess is that he sees such instruments as part of an artistic endeavor, if you will."  
  
"And like any good artist," put in Illya, "he doesn't want to repeat himself."  
  
"Of course, that doesn't mean we're entirely off the hook," said Steed. "There may come a day when he wishes to visit vengeance upon us all. The League has balked him twice. He might wait another seventy years before trying again. Or he might do it tomorrow. Little point in worrying about it, though. We have other things to do."  
  
"Perhaps," said Emma. "Perhaps some of us do. Others of us...well, we have other lives now."  
  
Bond glanced at her and agreed, silently. The League had succeeded, true enough. But it was difficult, working with all the rest when one was used to going it on one's own. He didn't think he'd like to repeat it, if he was offered the chance.  
  
There was no telling how the others felt. He assumed some shared his sentiments. But if those pictures back in their temporary headquarters were true, a League of some sort or another had existed for decades, possibly centuries. There would be other men of the League, he felt, if they were needed. If Steed was not around to bring them together, someone else would. Of that, Bond felt sure.  
  
Emma Peel had brought a large bag into the room with her when she entered. She stooped to unzip it now. From it, she produced a magnum of champagne and a number of cheap plastic glasses. Oh, well, those were the kind of vessels that traveled well.  
  
As were all of the persons within the room.  
  
The glasses were filled and distributed. Steed was allowed the privilege of making the toast. Raising his glass, he said, "Ladies and gentlemen...to the League."  
  
"To the League," they echoed.   
  
Even Bond said it, last of all. "To the League."  
  
And everyone emptied their glasses.  
  
Notes for part 12:  
  
"James, you were apparently dosed with the Elixir Vitae." The Elixir figures in several of Sax Rohmer's Fu Manchu novels and is indeed the secret of his prolonged longevity.  
  
"I daresay it'll retard your aging processes as well," said Slate. Bond was born no later than 1924, possibly as early as 1920, though I favor the later date. (See Raymond Benson's JAMES BOND BEDSIDE COMPANION.) COLONEL SUN, the last James Bond novel published before the time of this story, appeared in 1968. Yet, John Gardner began chronicling new Bond exploits in LISCENSE RENEWED (1981) and a string of sequels, most recently continued by Benson to the present day. The dosage of Elixir Vitae explains how he was able to keep physically young throughout the rest of his novel series.  
  
Okay, here's where we try to sort out the acknowledgements.   
  
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen concept was created by Alan Moore.  
  
James Bond, M, and related characters were created by Ian Fleming and are the property of Glidrose Productions.  
  
Derek Flint was created by Hal Fimberg and is the property of 20th Century Fox.  
  
Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin, April Dancer, Mark Slate, UNCLE, and related characters were created by Norman Felton and are the property of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.  
  
John Steed and Emma Peel were created by Sidney Newman and are the property of EMI Films Ltd.  
  
Dr. Fu Manchu and related characters were created by Sax Rohmer and are the property of his estate.  
  
Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin were created by Peter O'Donnell and are the property of his estate.  
  
Savage was created by Gil Kane and is the property of his estate.  
  
Alexander Scott and Kelly Robinson were created by Sheldon Leonard and are the property of Sheldon Leonard Productions.  
  
John Drake, aka Number 6, aka the Prisoner, was created by Patrick McGoohan and is the property of ITC Ltd.  
  
Max Smart, the Chief, and related characters were created by Mel Brooks and Buck Henry and are the property of Talent Associates.  
  
Jim Phelps and the Impossible Missions Force were created by Bruce Geller and are (I believe) the property of Desilu and / or Paramount.  
  
Matt Helm was created by Donald Hamilton and is the property of his estate.  
  
It's possible I've gotten some of the creators or copyright holders wrong, despite my efforts. I welcome corrections. No money is being made from this story, no infringement is intended.  
  
This one's for Alan Moore and David McDaniel.  
  
–DarkMark, 7 / 20 / 04  
  



End file.
